Meanwhile the fratricidal strife between the kindred nations came to an end—never, let us hope, while the world stands, to be renewed. The Treaty of Paris brought repose to the two war-wearied people. The Angel of Peace waved her branch of olive over the ravaged fields and desolated homes, and the kindly hand of Nature veiled with her gentle ministries the devastations of war. One evening, in the leafy month of June, shortly after the tidings of the peace had arrived, Neville Trueman was walking with Miss Drayton on the banks of the noble river where, three years before, he had gazed upon the summer sunset and sung the song of Jerusalem the Golden. They had been on a visit of charity to a sick member of Neville's flock, and were now returning through the after-glow of a golden sunset. The breath of the peach and apple blossoms filled the air with fragrance, and their pink and white bloom clothed the orchard trees with beauty. Swift swallows clove with their scythe-like wings the sky, and skimmed the surface of the dimpling wave, and the whip-poor-will's plaint of tender melancholy was borne faintly on the breeze. At a point of vantage commanding a broad view of the river, which, wimpling and dimpling in its beauty, flowed, a sapphire set in emerald, between its verdurous banks, Kate stood to gaze upon the lovely scene—fair as the storied Bay of Naples or the far-famed Riviera of Genoa.

"It was here," she said, as she gazed wistfully at the setting sun, "that I had my last conversation with Captain Villiers, and an eventful conversation it was," and a tear glistened in her eyes as she remembered his parting words.

Neville listened in an embarrassed manner.

He thought that she referred to a declaration of his passion, so knowing not what reply to make he kept silent.

"I believe," continued Kate, "that that conversation had a very important influence, under God, on his destiny."

"His life," said Neville, "was unfortunately too short for him to enjoy his happiness."

"True," replied Kate; "but all the sooner he reached its consummation."

"How do you mean? I do not understand," said Neville, in a bewildered manner. "You would have been married had he lived."

"Married! Who spoke of marriage?" exclaimed Kate, flushing rosy red over brow and cheek, as she turned with an air and tone of surprise to her companion.

"Pardon me, I thought you were engaged," said Neville. "I have grounds to know that he cherished a deep devotion for you."

"He never declared it, then," replied Kate; "and I am glad he did not. I had a great esteem and respect for Captain Villiers, but I could not have given him my hand."

"Could not!" exclaimed Neville, in a dazed sort of manner. "Then I have been under a great mistake," and he walked on for a few minutes in silence.

"Miss Drayton," he said, after a pause, impelled by a sudden impulse and determined to know his fate, "I have long honoured and revered your character and person. This feeling has grown into a deep and ardent affection. Dare I hope that it is reciprocated? May I ask you to share the trials and, thank God, the triumphs of a Methodist preacher's life?" and he clasped her hand earnestly.

"Mr. Trueman," she faltered—but she withdrew not her hand—then, in a tenderer tone, "Neville, let me say, my heart has long been yours. Did you not know it? I fear not the trials if I may share the joys of service for the Master by your side," and she frankly placed her other hand in his.

Soft as fall the dews at even fell the holy kiss that sealed the plighted vows of these two young and loving hearts. Long they sat there on a mossy trunk beside the river's brink, in the golden twilight, beguiling the flying moments with sacred lovers' talk— to which it were sacrilege to listen and a crime to coldly report. At length, in the soft light of the crescent moon, they sauntered, she leaning confidingly upon his arm, slowly up the garden alley between the sweet June roses, breathing forth their souls in fragrance on the summer air.

Plucking a rich red rose, Neville placed it in her hair, saying, "So may the immortal roses that the angel brought to St. Cecilia—the virtues and the graces of the bride of Christ—bloom forever in your garland of beauty and crown of rejoicing."

Then she, glowing with fairer loveliness beneath his fond caress, plucked a white rose from its stem and fastened it upon his breast with the words, "So, O beloved, wear thou the white flower of blameless life, breathing the fragrance of purity and holiness throughout the world."

Arm in arm the lovers passed on to the house and into the presence of the squire, who sat beneath the grape vine of the broad piazza enjoying his evening pipe.

"Squire Drayton," said Neville, in a tone of manly confidence, "I have come to ask your daughter's hand in marriage," and he put his arm protectingly around her, as she stood blushing at his side.

"Well, young man," said the old gentleman, taking his long "churchwarden" pipe from his mouth, "you ask that as coolly as though girls like Kate grew as plentifully as the grape clusters on this vine. There's not a man living good enough for my Kate— I'd have you know."

"I quite agree with you in that, squire," said the young man. "So much the greater my prize in winning her affection."

"I believe you have, my lad," said the old man, relenting, and then went on with a good deal of natural pathos, "An old thorn like me can't expect to keep such a sweet rose ungathered on its stem. Take her, Neville. Love and cherish her as you would have God be good to you. Kiss me, Kate. You must still keep room in your heart for your poor old father. Ton have been my greatest solace since your mother died. Be as good a wife as you have been a daughter, and God's blessing on you both."

Kate flung her arms around her father's neck and covered his brow and cheek with kisses. And Neville, taking his hand, said solemnly, "God do so to me and more also, if I cherish not your daughter as my life; if I cherish her not as Christ loved His Bride the Church, and gave Himself for it."

"I have one regret," said Neville, sometime afterward, when Kate had gone out of the room, "and that is, that I have not brighter worldly prospects and more assured support to offer Kate."

"The time has been, my son," said the squire, adopting him at once into the family, "when I would have thought so too; when I would have sought, as conditions for her future,—position, wealth, and ease. But I have lived to see that these are not the great essentials of life, that these alone cannot give happiness. With true love and God's blessing you can never be poor. Without these, though you roll in riches, you are poor indeed. Not but that it would grieve me to see Kate want, as many a preacher's wife whom I have known has wanted. But by God's goodness I am able to secure her against that, and to do so shall be the greatest pleasure of my life."

"I accept on her behalf your generous offer," replied Neville, "but with this condition, that your bounty shall be settled exclusively on her. No man shall say that I married your daughter for anything but herself."

"I dare say you are right," said the squire. "Better get a fortune in a wife than with a wife. Often when a wife brings a fortune she spends a fortune."

"I would never submit," remarked Neville, "to the humiliation of being a pensioner upon a wife's bounty. My self-respect demands that, as the head of the house, I be able to depend on myself alone."

"You must not push your principles too far," interrupted the squire, "A husband and wife should have one purse, one purpose, common interests, perfect mutual confidence, and, above all, no secrets from each other."

In such sage counsels and confidences the evening, fraught with such eventful consequences to the household of The Holms and to the hero of our little story, passed away.

A few weeks later, shortly after the Conference by which Neville was appointed to the superintendence of a circuit in the western part of Canada, his marriage took place. The Holms for days before was a ferment of excitement with the baking of cakes and pastry and confections of every kind and degree, including the construction of a three-story iced wedding-cake, on which the skill of Kate herself, as mistress of ceremonies, was exhausted. The best parlour too was a scene of unwonted anarchy under the distracting reign of the village dressmaker constructing the bridal trousseau. Billows of tulle, illusion, lace, and other feminine finery, which the male mind cannot be expected to understand, far less to describe foamed over tables, chairs, and floor. The result of all this confusion was apparent on the morning of the happy day, in the sumptuous wedding-breakfast that covered the ample board, set out with the best plate and china, and, above all, in as fair a vision of bridal beauty as ever gladdened the heart of youthful bridegroom.

Good Elder Ryan travelled many miles to perform the wedding service. Merry were his laugh and jest and wit and playful badinage, for the early Methodist preachers were no stern ascetics or grim anchorites. Like their Master, who graced the marriage feast of Cana of Galilee with His presence, they could rejoice with those that did rejoice, as well as weep with those that wept. Long was the prayer he uttered, but to the youthful happy pair it seemed not so, for in their hearts they prayed with him, [Footnote: See Longfellow's "River Charles".] and solemnly dedicated themselves to the new life of consecrated usefulness that invited them forward to sweet ministries of mercy and of grace in the service of the Master.

The squire looked rubicund and patriarchal, with his broad physique and snow-white hair. He wore, in honour of the occasion, his coat of brightest blue, with large gilt buttons, a buff waistcoat and an ample ruffled shirt-bosom and frilled sleeves. His manner was a singular blending of paternal joy and pride in the beauty and happiness of the fair Katharine, and of wistful tenderness and regret at the loss of her gladsome presence from his home.

Zenas was jubilant and boisterous, full of quips and pranks, overflowing with fun, like a boy let loose from school. He evidently felt, not that he was losing a sister, but that he was gaining a brother who was already knit to his soul by bonds of friendship strong as those between Jonathan and David—between Damon and Pythias.

Our old friends, Tom Loker and Sandy McKay, also, in accordance with early colonial etiquette, graced the occasion with their presence, and added their honest and heartfelt congratulations to those which greeted the happy pair. And never was there happier pair than that which rode away in the wedding-coach to their new home on the forest mission of the western wilds of Canada. Not much of this world's goods had they, but they were rich in love, and hope, and faith, compared with which all earthly riches are but dross.

The old house at The Holms seemed very lone and desolate, now that its fair mistress had departed. The squire missed her much, and, in his loneliness and isolation, turned more and more toward those religious consolations which had been the inspiration of the life of his wife and daughter, and, there is ground to hope, found that solace which can be found nowhere else.

He sought a diversion from his solitude in frequent visits to the village parsonage, where Katharine reigned in her small home- kingdom with blooming matron dignity. Nor were these visits unprofitable to the larder, if we might judge from the stout hampers which went full and returned empty. But a still greater joy was the visit of Katharine to the old homestead at Christmas- time; and at midsummer, when Neville was absent at Conference. The old man never enjoyed his pipe so much as when it was filled and lighted by the deft fingers of his fair matron daughter. In after years these visits were made not unattended. Children's happy laughter filled the old house with glee, and strange riot ruled in the long-quiet parlour and great wide hall and echoing stairs. Another sturdy Neville, and little Kate, and baby Zenas began to play their parts in the momentous and often tragic drama of life. The old man seemed to renew his youth in sharing the gleeful gambols of his grandchildren, and in telling to little Neville, on his knee, the story of the terrible years of the war, and of the heroism of his father and his uncle Zenas, and the brave Captain Villiers, whose memorial tablet they had seen in the village church at Niagara, with the strange quartering—on a field azure a cross enguled and a wyvern volant.

Our brief story now is done. The bitter memories of the war have passed away. The long reign of peace has effaced its scars alike from the face of nature and from the hearts of the kindred peoples who dwell side by side in kindly intercourse and friendship. The broad Niagara sweeps on as ever in its might and majesty to mingle its flood with the blue waters of Ontario. The banks, in steep escarpments, crowned with oak and elm and giant walnuts, or in gentle turfclad slopes, sweep in graceful curves around the windings of the stream. The weeping birch trails its tresses in the waters like a wood nymph admiring her own loveliness. The comfortable farmsteads nestle amid their embowering peach and apple orchards, the very types of peace and plenty. The mighty river, after its dizzy plunge at the great cataract, and mad tumultuous rush and eddy at the rapids and whirlpool, smoothes its rugged front and restrains its impetuous stream to the semblance of a placid old age after a wild and stormy life.

The slumberous old town of Niagara has also an air of calm repose. No vulgar din of trade disturbs its quiet grass-grown streets. The dismantled fort, the broken stockade, the empty fosse, and the crumbling ramparts, where wandering sheep crop the herbage and the swallows build their nests in the months of the overturned and rusty cannon, are all the evidence of the long reign of an unbroken peace. Esto perpetua—so may it ever be.

A few words in conclusion as to the construction of this story of the War. The historical statements here given have been carefully verified by the consultation of the best published authorities, and by personal researches on the scene of the conflict, and frequent conversations with surviving actors in the stirring events which then took place. In portraying the minor characters, filling up details and reported conversations, some licence had to be given the imagination. In this connection I may adopt the language of the distinguished philosopher, Isaac Taylor, author of "Aids to Faith," with reference to a somewhat similar work of imagination of his own: "Let me say, and I say it in candour—that if, in a dramatic sense, I report conversations uttered longer ago than the Battle of Waterloo, it is the dramatic import only of such conversations I vouch for, not the ipsissima verba; and likewise as to the descriptions I give, I must be understood to describe things in an artistic sense, not as if I were giving evidence in a court of justice."

And now my task is ended. Much of this simple story has been written hastily, amid the pressing occupations of a busy life, and a considerable portion of it was written at sea, when the steamship was reeling and rolling with the motion of the waves, so that I had to hold on by the table at which I sat. These circumstances must be pleaded in extenuation of its shortcomings and demerits. If this retrospect of one of the most stirring episodes in our country's history shall kindle warmer fires of patriotism in the hearts of any of its readers; if the records of the trials and triumphs, the moral heroism and brave achievements of our Canadian forefathers shall inspire a stronger sympathy with their sufferings, and admiration of their character; and, above all, if the religious teachings of this story shall lead any to seek the same solace and succour which sustained our fathers in tribulation, and enbraved their souls for conflict with the evils of the time—it shall not have been written in vain.

THE END