‘Hush, Davy, bach! we have all our troubles,’ says Mrs Prothero, brushing a tear from her eye.

‘Grandfather, I liked Harold so much!’ says Minette, to the great relief of the rest of the party.

‘Call him Master Gwynne, you forward little minx,’ says Mr Prothero, patting the child’s back gently.

’Oh! but he told me he should marry me, and that Colonel Vaughan said he was my uncle.’

’Children and ‘oomen all alike,’ says the farmer; ’thinking of marriage as soon as they can speak.  Gladys, why don’t you teach the child better?’

‘It was the champagne, father,’ says Owen.  ’My full impression is, that a few glasses more and you would have kissed Lady Mary.  I wish we had brought a glass for you to drink the bride and bridegroom’s health, Aunt ‘Lizbeth.’

‘Oh, I have been drinking that pain!’

A sudden little cry in the corner prevents any allusion to the occasion on which Mrs Jenkins drank champagne.

Gladys has her baby in her arms in a few seconds.  The infant is attired in her christening robe and cap, and seems to add a new beauty to the sweet and gentle Gladys.  All eyes are directed towards them, all hearts warm towards them.  Minette is instantly kissing her little cousin, even Mrs Jonathan takes its tiny hand, as Gladys carries it round in her mother’s pride and joy.

‘Your grandchild and my grandniece, Mr Prothero,’ says Mr Jones, ’may she grow up as good as her mother.’

‘Amen!’ replies Mr Prothero.

And with this word we end our story.  The wedding wreath—­the christening-robe—­the shroud!  Again the wreath and the robe!  Such has been our tale, and ‘such is life!’

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