CHAPTER XIV.

FINALE.


Through the open casement of a small, white cottage in the village of
P----, the rays of the September moon are stealing, disclosing to view
a gray-haired man, whose placid face still shows marks of long years
of dissipation. Affectionately he caresses the black, curly head which
is resting on his knee, and softly he says, "Lenora, my daughter,
there are, I trust, years of happiness in store for us both."

"I hope it may be so," was the answer, "but there is no promise of
many days to any save those who honor their father and mother. This
last I have never done, though many, many times have I repented of it,
and I begin to be assured that we may be happy yet."

* * * * *

Away to the westward, over many miles of woodland, valley, and hill,
the same September moon shines upon the white walls of the
"homestead," where sits the owner, Walter Hamilton, gazing first upon
his wife and then upon the tiny treasure which lies sleeping upon her
lap.

"We are very happy, Katy darling," he says, and the affection which
looks from her large blue eyes as she lifts them to his face is a
sufficient answer. Margaret, too, is there, and though but an hour
ago her tears were falling upon the grass-grown graves where slept her
father and mother, the gentle Carrie, and golden-haired Willie, they