Arrived at John's lodgings, he ushered the stranger into Gertrude's studio, of which she had given him the key when they parted, as she intended riding out with Rose. Motioning him to a seat, and adding that he would rejoin him presently, John left him there alone.

The stranger looked around; there were landscape, game, fruit, cattle, and flower pieces, and all so exquisitely painted that any other moment each would have been a study to him—now heart and brain were both pre-occupied. What was in store for him? He felt this to be a turning-point in his life.

A slight jar, and a picture, which stands with the back toward him, falls over. The stranger rises, and stoops to replace it!

Ah!—why that suppressed cry of joy? Why those passionate kisses on the insensible canvas? Why those fast-falling tears, and heart-beaming smiles?

"It is not your mamma—it is my mamma," said Charley, stepping up between the picture and the stranger.

"His own eyes! his own brow! and Rose's sweet mouth! his own, and Rose's child!

"My God, I thank thee!" he murmured; but the thin arms that were outstretched to clasp his new found treasure, fell powerless at his side. To sorrow he had become inured; he could not bear the out-gushing fountain of joy.

John, who had been an unseen spectator, had not looked for this tragic termination of his test. On his kind heart his rival's head was pillowed, his hand bathed his cold temples, his voice assisted returning consciousness.

"Who is he?" whispered Charley, tiptoeing up to John.

"Ask him," whispered John, as the stranger slowly opened his eyes.

Charley advanced, then retreated a step—then, won by the beaming smile which irradiated the stranger's face, he asked,

"Did you come here to see my Aunt Gertrude's pictures?"

"No," replied the stranger, with the same bright smile.

"Did you come to see John?"

"No, my dear."

"Did you come to see me?"

"Yes."

"What did you come to see me, for?"

Drawing him closer to his heart, and kissing his brow, the stranger said, "See if you can not guess."

Charley looked at Cousin John, but the conflicting expressions which flitted over his face gave him no clew. He looked at the stranger—his dark eyes were brimming with tears, but the same smile still played upon his lips. Charley stood for a moment irresolute, then, with another timid look into his face, he said, "I don't know—certainly—who you are, but—"

"But what, my dear?"

"Perhaps—you are my own papa come home."

No reply—but a deadly pallor overspread the stranger's face as he glanced in the direction of the door. John, who was standing with his back to it, turned around—and there—in the doorway, stood Rose with her small head bent forward—her lips apart—and her dilated eyes fixed upon the prostrate form before her. It was only for an instant—with a piercing cry, in which fear and joy both found utterance, she bounded to his side—kissed his brow, his lips, his eyes. Oh, was death to divide them then? God forbid!

"Vincent—Vincent—my own Vincent!" and in that long, idolatrous kiss, her woman's heart absolved the past, whatever that past might be.