“There is John Gilmour, my landlord,” continued she, “who, though he needed a’ his rents for a big family, passed me many a term, and forbye brought me often, when I was ill and couldna work, many a bottle o’ wine; there is Mrs. Paterson o’ the Watergate, too, who aince, when I gaed to her in sair need, gave me a shilling out o’ three that she needed for her bairns; and Mrs. Galloway, o’ Little Lochend, slipt in to me a peck o’ meal ae morning when I had naething for breakfast.”

“And these shall be at our marriage, Mary,” said he.  “They shall be dressed to make their eyes doubtful if they are themselves.  John Gilmour will wonder how these pounds of his rent he passed you from have grown to hundreds; Mrs. Paterson’s shilling will have grown as the widow’s mite never grew, even in heaven; and Mrs. Galloway’s peck of meal will be made like the widow’s cruse of oil—­it will never be finished while she is on earth.”

Whereupon Mary raised her head.  The blank eyes were turned upon him, and something like a smile played over the thin and wasted face.  At the same moment a fair-haired girl of twelve years came jumping into the room, and only stopped when she saw a stranger.

“That is Helen Kemp,” said Mary, who knew her movements.  “I forgot Helen; she lights my fire, and when I was able to gae out used to lead me to the Park.”

“And she shall be one of the favoured ones of the earth,” said he, as he took by the hand the girl, whom the few words from Mary had made sacred to him, adding, “Helen, dear, you are to be kinder to Mary than you have ever been;” and, slipping into the girl’s hand a guinea, he whispered, “You shall have as many of these as will be a bigger tocher to you than you ever dreamed of, for what you have done for Mary Brown.”

And thus progressed to a termination a scene, perhaps more extraordinary than ever entered into the head of a writer of natural things and events not beyond the sphere of the probable.  Nor did what afterwards took place fall short of the intentions of a man whose intense yearnings to make up for what had been lost led him into the extravagance of a vain fancy.  He next day took a great house, and forthwith furnished it in proportion to his wealth.  He hired servants in accordance, and made all the necessary arrangements for the marriage.  Time, which had been so cruel to him and his sacred Mary, was put under the obligation of retribution.  John Gilmour, Mrs. Paterson, Mrs. Galloway, and Helen Kemp were those, and those alone, privileged to witness the ceremony.  We would not like to describe how they were decked out, nor shall we try to describe the ceremony itself.  But vain are the aspirations of man when he tries to cope with the Fates!  The changed fortune was too much for the frail and wasted bride to bear.  She swooned at the conclusion of the ceremony, and was put into a silk-curtained bed.  Even the first glimpse of grandeur was too much for the spirit whose sigh was “vanity, all is vanity,” and, with the words on her lips, “A life’s love lost,” she died.