We returned home; but my health and nerves had received a shock which I could not overcome, and months of weary restless suffering passed on. My heart was too full of sorrow to enjoy anything, and thus the monotony of my life was fast eating into my natural vitality.

At length my husband proposed our going to Europe; not, as he said, entirely on my account, as he did not wish me to suppose myself so ill; but because there were several geologists for whom he had the highest respect, yet with whom he was most anxious to hold an argument.

Thus four months after the tragedy of the Valley saw us landing in Southampton. Change of scene and habit wrought that marvelous revolution in my feelings which no medicine, spiritual or material, could accomplish.

The Professor disputed to his heart’s content; and then went on to Switzerland to make more explorations.

“My dear,” said my husband one day, pulling out a pocketful of dirty stones, “I do not think this mountain air agrees with you. You are looking sick and weary again.”

“It is not the air, “ I said, “but the recollections which the scenery recalls. It makes me nervous; I cannot deny it.”

“Let us go to Italy!” said the Professor. “We will see the Thorwaldsen Lion, and then we will depart.”

We were gazing on that far-famed work of art in rapt admiration, when a firm hand was placed on my arm, and, turning, I beheld the glad honest face of Kenmuir. Only the face, for the rest was a travelling suit of Tweed, and leaning upon him was the graceful figure of Cozy.

Explanation was scarcely necessary. They were on their honey-moon trip, “Walking in fresh gardens of the Lord,” as Kenmuir phrased it; for in nothing else save his Scotch suit was he changed from the moment I had first seen him upon that fatal point of Palel-lima.

The news from the Valley was the usual tidings of death and marriage,—the former, poor Mr. Naunton, and the latter, their own.

Nell and Radd went on as usual, Rollo assisting in the household, and pioneering Radd when he had sold too many skins to see his own way. Old Mophead would doubtless live as long as the famous Dr. Parr; and even the present generation of babies may hope to see him if they visit the Valley of Yo-semite some twenty years hence.

Horse-shoe Bill conveyed travellers into the Valley, never failing to relate, “That horrible mash as took place of two human beings in this here spot!” The traveller would examine the place where love and jealousy had wrought out their ends, gather a flower, and sigh, “Alas, poor Zanita! What a poetical name! Is there any more champagne? Do their ghosts haunt the place?” and so pass on.

And thus we all pass on through light and shade,—through life’s joys and crimes,—till we come to the end, and the Angel of Death writes up

FINIS.

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