which makes all things true, beautiful, and holy shone around this youth
and maiden. They were conscious of nothing sad or old.

Presently the voices of Clifford and Hepzibah were heard at the door,
and when they entered Clifford appeared the stronger of the two.

"It is our own little Phoebe! Ah! And Holgrave with her!" he exclaimed.
"I thought of you both as we came down the street. And so the flower of
Eden has bloomed even in this old, darksome house to-day."

A week after the judge's death news came of the death of his son, and so
Hepzibah became rich, and so did Clifford, and so did Phoebe, and,
through her, Holgrave.

It was far too late for the formal vindication of Clifford's character
to be worth the trouble and anguish involved. For the truth was that the
uncle had died by a sudden stroke, and the judge, knowing this, had let
suspicion and condemnation fall on Clifford, only because he had himself
been busy among the dead man's papers, destroying a later will made out
in Clifford's favour, and because it was found the papers had been
disturbed, to avert suspicion from the real offender he had let the
blame fall on his cousin.

Clifford was content with the love of his sister and Phoebe and
Holgrave. The good opinion of society was not worth publicly reclaiming.

It was Holgrave who discovered the missing document the judge had set
his heart on obtaining.

"And now, my dearest Phoebe," said Holgrave, "how will it please you to