it had been a dull day, this last day, so that all were glad that the evening was not spent quietly at home, giving time for sad thoughts of to-morrow's parting. thanks to harry and lucy, the excursion passed off more cheerfully than might have been expected, all appearing to enjoy themselves. on their return, isabel did not join the others in the drawing-room, but went out and lingered by the fountain, in the moonlight, musing on all that had happened since she first came there, now nearly five years ago, and wondering how long it might be, and what might happen, ere she would again be there--or if, indeed, she would be there again. ah! seek not to look into futurity, isabel. it is well for you that you know not all that shall be ere you again sit there. enjoy your happiness while you may, and leave the future to unfold itself. she remained there a long time thinking of many things, and was still lost in meditation when everard joined her.

"a penny for your thoughts," he said.

"oh, everard, i want you to do something," she returned, laying her hand on his arm.

"what is it, dearest?" he inquired.

"i feel so unhappy about louis. i wish so much that you would write and say that we forgive him."

everard was silent, and his face became very stern.

"if you would, i should be so glad."

"you ask too much," he said.

"only what is right."

"right perhaps, but hard--very hard."

"oh, do," she pleaded, raising her blue eyes to his so earnestly. "oh, everard, it is not the way for us to be happy, to be unforgiving. i should be so miserable: day by day watching the blue waters, knowing that i had left any one in anger or ill-feeling. oh, everard, you will forgive him!"

she looked so lovely there in the moonlight, pleading for one who so little deserved it of her, that everard found it hard to refuse her.

"i cannot write a lie, isabel, even to please you," he replied, in a harsh, unnatural voice.

"oh, no, not that; but i want you really to forgive him."

"i do not, i cannot," and his voice was hard and cold.

isabel shuddered. was this the everard usually so kind and gentle?

"oh, everard, and you a clergyman!"

"perhaps i am not fit to be one," he answered. "i have thought so sometimes lately, but i wished so much to be one that, in seeking to fulfil the wish, i may have overlooked the meetness."

"if you are not, i do not know who is," she said, "but this is not like yourself; i should be less surprised if i was unforgiving and you forgave."

"i hope that i do not often feel as i do now towards him. but you forget how nearly he took you from me; he whom i trusted and regarded with the warmest friendship."

"it is not for his sake i ask it everard; forgive as you would be forgiven."

they walked on in silence until they reached the house. then everard said, "from my heart i wish i could, isabel," and abruptly left her. then, alone in his own room, after all had retired to rest, far into the night he fought the battle of good and evil. what was he about to do--preach and teach meekness, self-denial, and forgiveness of injuries, while he was still angry and unforgiving? what mockery! ought he not to practice what he taught? was theory--mere words--sufficient? no; he must, by example, give force to his teaching, or how could he hope to succeed? all this he saw clearly enough, but the difficulty still remained. he strove hard to conquer, but evil prevailed. "forgive as you would be forgiven" rang continually in his ears, but he did not, could not, forgive. he laid down, but not to sleep, and the pale moon shone calmly and peacefully in upon him, as if mocking his disquietude. at length he threw the painful subject from him, and sank into an uneasy slumber.

he awoke, next morning, with the sun beaming brightly in at the window. but dark clouds gathered round him; gloomy doubts as to his fitness for the office he had taken, and sorrow at the impossibility of his forgiving louis. "forgive as you would be forgiven," and again the last night's struggle was renewed, and even when they started for the church he had not conquered.

isabel saw how it was, and this was the bitter drop in her cup of happiness. alas! in this world when is it unalloyed?

a burst of music filled the church as the bridal party entered, and very lovely looked the bride, surrounded by her three little bridesmaids, while in the background stood a fourth, the merry lucy. bob and three youthful arlington cousins were groomsmen, and everard, to use lucy's own words, was the very beau ideal of what a bridegroom should be, in fact "perfect."

the sun shone with almost dazzling splendor on the group, which emily pronounced "a good omen," and again the organ pealed forth its joyous strains as they left the church, and gaily rang the marriage bells.

"everard," said isabel, when they were in the library awaiting the arrival of the others, "write that letter now; i know you can, for you would not look so happy if you felt as you did last night."

"i can write it truthfully now," he replied, smiling at her earnestness. and then, with his bride bending over his shoulder, everard wrote such a note as only he could write, expressing their entire forgiveness, and made isabel take the pen and write "isabel arlington" under his signature.

the others, coming in, insisted upon knowing the subject of their very important correspondence, but everard pocketed the letter and refused to satisfy their curiosity.

the breakfast was but a dull affair, notwithstanding the exuberant spirits of the young groomsmen. the parents knew that they were parting with their only son, and that it would be years before they would see him again; and the son, amid his happiness, remembered that he was leaving father, mother, sisters, perhaps never to return. isabel, also, felt it hard to part so soon with her new sisters, who hung about her with every demonstration of affection and regret.

then such a scene in the dressing-room (from which mrs. arlington had mercifully contrived to keep mrs. arnold.) emily, with her head buried in a sofa cushion, weeping passionately at the thought of parting with her brother, while the children all clung around isabel in such a manner as to make it utterly impossible for her to don her travelling dress; lucy trying to comfort emily, and grace scolding the children. ada, taking pity on isabel, reminded them that everard was going as well as isabel, suggesting that they should go down to him. to this they readily agreed.

"i ought to go, too, only i'm afraid everard will be vexed to see me in such a state," sobbed emily.

"i like to have you here, emily dear," replied isabel, "but you had better go down; you will be sorry afterwards if you don't. he feels it dreadfully, i know, poor fellow."

"he looked fearfully pale during breakfast," added ada, feelingly.

"i will go," returned emily, vainly endeavoring to check her emotion. and grace went with her, leaving isabel with ada and lucy.

isabel, who had managed to keep up tolerably well so far, now gave way to uncontrollable emotion. this second scene with the children had been quite too much for her.

"isabel! isabel! you will never be dressed to-day," cried ada, in despair.

"oh, let her be," returned lucy; "they will miss the train, and have to wait for the next steamer. what a glorious stew everard would be in! for then, of course, they would be too late for that precious indian ship. oh, i declare, i hope they will!"

"oh, lucy!" and isabel made quick work with her dressing, to lucy's intense amusement.

everard, meanwhile, had been undergoing a terrible ordeal down stairs, and was truly glad when isabel made her appearance. she was met now with a worse storm of grief than any previously encountered; as for amy, she flew into the carriage after her.

so they drove off, amid thundering cheers from the young groomsmen. papa inquired if amy intended to go to madagascar, and on everard's answering in the affirmative she was wild to get out, protesting that she would not. "but you can't get out until we reach the gate," said everard. "promise me, isabel, dear isabel, that you will let me out at the gate," she cried, in an agony; "pray don't let me go to nasty madagascar; oh, please don't." so everard, seeing that the child was really terrified, stopped the carriage, and amy instantly jumped out in the greatest haste, without waiting for any more leave-taking, getting several thumps from the old shoes which were sent in a continued shower after the carriage until it had passed through the gate, when a deafening "tiger" made the welkin ring.

* * * * * * * *

here we must bid adieu to those whose fortunes we have followed so far, hoping at some future time to hear more about them. but as we do not care to inquire particularly after louis taschereau, we may as well mention here that he, some time after, married a fine high-spirited girl, who was completely his match, the domineering being all on the wife's side. no tears were shed by her during his absence, and a scornful smile was the utmost that his anger or ill-temper ever elicited. so they managed to get on tolerably well, the inquiring look of the cold grey eye often checking a fit of passion. as louis's mercenary propensities have already shown themselves, it is almost needless to add that she had what he valued more than anything else--money--which, by the way, she took good care to have settled on herself. but this he did not object to (albeit she would have done so all the same if he had), provided there was plenty of it.