Frank shrank at first from returning to Aberalva, when Scoutbush offered him the living on old St. Just’s death.  But Valencia all but commanded him; so he went:  and, behold his return was a triumph.

All was understood now, all forgiven, all forgotten, save his conduct in the cholera, by the loving, honest, brave West-country hearts; and when the new-married pair were rung into the town, amid arches and garlands, flags and bonfires, the first man to welcome Frank into his rectory was old Tardrew.

Not a word of repentance or apology ever passed the old bulldog’s lips.  He was an Englishman, and kept his opinions to himself.  But he had had his lesson like the rest, two years ago, in his young daughter’s death; and Frank had thenceforth no faster friend than old Tardrew.

Frank is still as High Church as ever; and likes all pomp and circumstance of worship.  Some few whims he has given up, certainly, for fear of giving offence; but he might indulge them once more, if he wished, without a quarrel.  For now that the people understand him, he does just what he likes.  His congregation is the best in the archdeaconry; one meeting-house is dead, and the other dying.  His choir is admirable; for Valencia has had the art of drawing to her all the musical talent of the tuneful West-country folk; and all that he needs, he thinks, to make his parish perfect, is to see Grace Harvey schoolmistress once more.

What can have worked the change?  It is difficult to say, unless it be that Frank has found out, from cholera and hospital experiences, that his parishioners are beings of like passions with himself; and found out, too, that his business is to leave the Gospel of damnation to those whose hapless lot it is to earn their bread by pandering to popular superstition; and to employ his independent position, as a free rector, in telling his people the Gospel of salvation—­that they have a Father in heaven.

Little Scoutbush comes down often to Aberalva now, and oftener to his Irish estates.  He is going to marry the Manchester lady after all, and to settle down; and try to be a good landlord; and use for the benefit of his tenants the sharp experience of human hearts, human sorrows, and human duty, which he gained in the Crimea two years ago.

And Major Campbell?

Look on Cathcart’s Hill.  A stone is there, which is the only earthly token of that great experience of all experiences which Campbell gained two years ago.

A little silk bag was found, hung round his neck, and lying next his heart.  He seemed to have expected his death; for he had put a label on it—­

“To be sent to Viscount Scoutbush for Miss St. Just.”

Scoutbush sent it home to Valencia, who opened it, blind with tears.

It was a note, written seven years before; but not by her; by Lucia ere her marriage.  A simple invitation to dinner in Eaton Square, written for Lady Knockdown, but with a postscript from Lucia, herself:  “Do come, and I will promise not to tease you as I did last night.”