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Our tale is nearly finished. That stalwart mountaineer,
the living type of the old border past, having gone
away to another world, what remains for the chronicler
to say? His inspiration is dead, the history wound up,
the hero has fought his last battle and succumbed to fate.

But we will trespass for a brief space still upon the
reader's time, since those other personages who have entered
into, and taken a prominent part in our history—
whose claims to attention are based on the latter clause
of the title of these pages—now demand a few words, in
conclusion, at our hands.

The autumn following that spring whose near approach
we have adverted to, saw three marriages in the mountains
around Meadow Branch. Miss Emberton gave her
hand willingly, most willingly, to the playmate of her
youth—the noble heart whose image had never left her
memory from first to last. With the bracelet in his hand
the worthy Doctor had made his first approaches, and
never did royal signet work so powerfully on some rebellious
town, as that simple circlet of sandal-wood on the
heart of its mistress. It had called up old scenes, fresh
and radiant once more, with all the light and joy of youth;
it had wakened memories slowly fading away into the
dim past; it had, in a word, so strongly stirred that tender
heart of the still girlish lady, that when the hero of those
happy scenes of her youth laid siege more vigorously than
ever to the town, the town surrendered. So they were
married duly; and soon after Caroline and Alice pledged

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their troth to Mr. Robert Emberton and Max, the details
of whose courtships we have given very fully.

Monsieur Pantoufle was a welcome guest on these festive
occasions, and the old man's face was a pleasure to
the Doctor and his wife. He had given them dancing
lessons in their childhood—now he saw them happily
united, and rejoiced to see it.

“I shall give lesson in the dance to your children, Monsieur
Max,” he said, playing with his old cocked hat and
ruffles, “ah! you are very happy!”

“How, my old friend,” said the Doctor.

“You have good wife; whoever have good wife is
happy.”

The old man sighed.

“Were you ever married, my good Monsieur Pantoufle?”
asked the Doctor; “you speak very feelingly.”

The old man bent his head, and something like a tear
glistened in his eye.

“Yes! yes!” he said.

“You seem grieved; pardon my thoughtlessness.”

“No; 'tis friendly. I had wife, I had—”

The old man paused.

“I had children,” he continued, in a trembling voice.
“I lose them all on board ship—wreck coming from St.
Domingo—you understand, Monsieur Max—all, all my
little chicks.”

“Your children?”

“Yes; all, all! three little ones—and my poor wife.
I have no heart, no home now!”

With these words two tears rolled down Monsieur Pantoufle's
cheeks, and he turned away with a sob.

The Doctor went to him and took his hand.

“You must be lonely, my old friend,” he said, in his
noble and courteous voice, “and my friends, especially
the friends of my youth, who have ever cherished my
memory and loved me, shall not want for any thing I can

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furnish them. You must come and live with us here
whenever you are not engaged giving lessons in Bath or
Martinsburg. You are now growing very old, and you
will find the country far more pleasant than the town.
You can play your violin here, and be sure you will ever
be welcome—most welcome.”

Monsieur Pantoufle raised his thin wistful face, and
made the Doctor one of his old courtly bows.

“Too happy—you make me too happy, Monsieur Max,”
he said, “I can not so trouble you, though; no.”

“I insist—you positively shall, my old friend,” said
the Doctor.

Monsieur Pantoufle smiled and pressed his hat on his
heart.

“Well, you make me ver happy, Monsieur Max,” he
said, a hearty expression diffusing itself over his old face,
“mos happy. Yes, yes; and no one but the old man
shall teach the young Courtlandts to dance the minuet;—
you recollect the good old minuet—or play the piano—
ah! the harpsichord gone out of fashion! Who would
have said when we fence together in old times, I should
give my lesson to the second generation.”

Doctor Courtlandt laughed and took up a foil.

“Do you fence still?” he said.

“No, no—I am old, I am stiff; my hands grow white
and weak—my ruffles are now of use, not for the looks
only. My hand like a ghost's!”

With which melancholy, but not bitter or complaining
witicism, Monsieur Pantoufle, bowing with his old elegance,
took his departure. The poor old man had now a
home at last.

“Poor cousin of the Duke de Montmorenci! I will not
abandon you in your age,” said the Doctor, thoughtfully
smiling. “This world is a strange place—but what matters
it? 'Tis all right in the end.”

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