Skaife arrived in Paris, and, after a lengthened interview with Mary, he quitted her abode. If he was very pale, it was the pallor of sudden, and almost deemed impossible, joy. Minnie lived! and he was wending his way to a now scarcely sad chamber, where Hope sat beside the still pale, but recovering woman, reclining near a cheerful wood blaze, in a more comfortable, though still very humble, room. This is all she would consent to at Mary's expense; for personal resources she had none. Skaife found himself incapable of much speech; he could but press Minnie's hand between his own with the affection of a brother, to whom a loved sister was suddenly restored from death. He, however, endeavoured to persuade her to return at once to Gatestone, promising her a joyful welcome from all, who mourned her loss severely. To this she was deaf; nothing could induce her to quit Paris, and leave Tremenhere's vicinity. Skaife had bound himself, by a solemn promise, not to reveal her existence without her permission, unless he saw the absolute necessity for so doing, to prevent the marriage of Tremenhere with Lady Dora. After vainly endeavouring to urge her to another course, he quitted the house to visit Miles, and, if possible, discover what his real feelings were; for a certain pride prevented Minnie from throwing herself at his feet, until she knew whether his heart still remembered her.

Our readers will recollect, that she knew nothing of his visit to Marseilles—his conviction of her innocence. She only knew the fatal words, which, ringing in her ears, had driven her frantic—his avowed love for Lady Dora. Tremenhere was pained and surprised by Skaife's visit. He felt in himself so guilty towards Minnie, that one who had known all her worth seemed as an accusing spirit. Skaife's manner, too, after the first hasty meeting, was so embarrassed, that it added to the suffering his presence inflicted.

It would have been impossible for a friend to look upon Miles without reading all his deep care, however veiled to the world in general;—there was the clouded eye, without fire, full of soul and expression; but the changing fire was gone—'twas one settled, calm, uncomplaining trouble. Skaife spoke of his journey to Paris as one of mere pleasure; of course Minnie's family was never alluded to. Miles had been painting when the other entered, and drawing the cover, of which Lord Randolph had spoken, over the easel, he rose to welcome him with a start of pleasure, which, however, almost instantaneously settled into a look of pain and embarrassment. For some time they spoke on indifferent subjects, things most difficult to find for two so closely drawn together in one painful one. There was a moment's pause, when Tremenhere suddenly exclaimed—

"Skaife, I am surprised—much surprised, to see you here."

"How so?" the other asked, colouring, and amazed.

"Because, were I in your place, I should shun the atmosphere where breathed such another as myself, like that of a pest-house."

"Pardon me, Tremenhere, you would do as I do—feel sincere pity for a man, whose severest punishment must be his own bitter remorse and regret."

Tremenhere looked silently at him a moment.

"You have indeed said truly," he uttered at last, and turned away towards the covered picture before him.

"Tremenhere," said Skaife, laying a hand on his arm, "I rejoice to hear you speak as you do; for vain as it may be, 'twill solace you all the remaining years of your life to remember her—as she was. You see I know to what you allude."

"Remember her, Skaife! What can that do for me? Remember that, but for the insane promptings of some demon, jealous of my happiness, I might now have her beside me, a living, breathing creature, instead of only this!" And he drew back the veil from his painting, and there, on the speaking canvass, was Minnie—oh, Minnie, as though she breathed before him! There is nothing so faithful as memory. It was an altar-piece, of which he had before spoken—a Madonna and child. The eyes looked forth serene and beautiful, patient, and with that predestined look which such a face should have—a look of future sorrow, future and immortal hope. Minnie's was all a face should be for so holy a purpose; and when Skaife remembered all she had suffered, he felt how well Tremenhere had chosen the subject, to call her features into life's seeming.

"It is like her, is it not?" asked the latter, fixing his deep, earnest gaze upon the face. "And I have tried to throw into the countenance something of the trouble I have seen there—something of what must have been, when she was at Marseilles! Skaife, I went there a week since, and learned all; since my return, I have passed the heavy hours of day and night in pourtraying the look which I divined hers, in that sad room where my child was born!"

"Have you been there?" exclaimed the other, a joy almost beyond controul bursting his heart; for he had come to that room in fear, of what he might hear.

"Yes," answered Tremenhere, looking up, surprised at his tone; "but I do not think you quite understand me, by your tone. I have been in the humble house of the toiling woman and mother—of the one I lured from every luxury, to cast, with a blighted name, into want!—want, Skaife—for this she has known! Now do you comprehend my utter wretchedness? Oh, believe that there can be no sorrow, no remorse like mine! I sit here for hours searching in my memory for every tone of her voice, every look of her sweet face! I tell you this, for self-abasement; you, at least shall know me as I am, though to the world I may be a mystery—to some, a monster!"

"From my soul I pity you, Tremenhere; but oh! I rejoice that her memory is now so sacred in your eyes from stain."

"Sacred and pure as an angel's, Skaife! Yet what can that avail now?"

"I feared," uttered the other, "that—I scarcely know how to speak my thought—that, in short, you might be—were, dazzled by Lady Dora Vaughan!"

"By her!" and he laughed in derision. "Have you, too, known the human heart so ill, to suppose that, having once loved Minnie, even though unjust, cruel, her murderer, I could ever place another, and such a one as Lady Dora, near her? No, no; be my feelings what they may, I never will dream even of so vain a thing as alleviating them by any union; still less with Lady Dora, than another!"

"I have, nevertheless, heard strange rumours."

"Have you? well, 'tis well. I would have it thus; 'tis——" He paused. "Let us change the subject," he said hastily; "time will prove all of us."

They were silent some moments.

"Do you know what grieves me most in this my task?" He pointed to the picture. "I cannot find in my mind a thought of what our child was like. I would I could thus complete my subject. But all is a blank!" He pointed to the infant, of which there was but an outline; indeed, all but the Madonna's face was this only, for he had not long commenced the picture, which had been one ordered some time previously.

A sudden thought struck Skaife.

"I was visiting in a house, yesterday," he said, "and there was struck by the unearthly beauty of a boy I saw in the arms of the conciÈrge. I asked to whom it belonged, and was told, to a poor woman residing in the house. I make no doubt I could induce them to bring the child to you—it is the loveliest I ever saw."

"Thank you, Skaife," he answered sadly; "but I do not think any child could give me the faintest idea of what hers must have been; it must have had a look of more than mortal sorrow on its young face, born in so much woe and care. I will try and dream what it could have been; nothing living can even pourtray it."

Skaife said no more on the subject; but, leaving shortly afterwards, hastened to Minnie, and with thankfulness of joy, watched the calm beam of hope in her eye, when he told her all that had passed between them. Skaife urged her to allow him, by degrees, to break the truth to her sorrowing husband; but there was still on her memory, unobliterated, the recollection of his words to her cousin, which nothing could efface, but proof to the contrary. One thing, however, they arranged, and Monsieur d'EstrÉes was the person chosen to carry out the scheme—namely, to take little Miles, or William as he was called, to his father's studio. The child had become so accustomed to the old man during Minnie's illness, that he would go any where unfearingly with him. We should vainly attempt to depict the mother's feelings, when she saw her boy next day departing under the care of her two sincere friends, to see his father for the first time. Thrice she called them back in mother's pride to arrange some curl on the noble brow, or again kiss the cheek, where perhaps his lip might be pressed. There was something hallowing in the thought to her beautiful mind, that their child should be the medium of communication between them, though to him unknown. Skaife had previously written to apprise Tremenhere, that at that hour he should call; and when he entered, and after a few moments, by way of prefacing the visit, mentioned he had asked a friend of the mother's, who often nursed the child in her absence, to call with him. Tremenhere coolly thanked him; at the same time expressing his firm conviction, that it could not answer his views or exalted ideas of what it should be. When d'EstrÉes entered as Monsieur Georges, and the boy with a quiet, contemplative air, most uncommon in one so young, looked in childish questioning at the tall, dark, strange man, Tremenhere stood transfixed. It was not that a look of the mother shook his heart—it was not the thought, that of such an age would his own be, were it living. No, it was the artist's realized dream—such a dream as inspiration might have given him. A child born in so much sorrow could not look as others would; every beautiful lineament was grave as of early woe, if so young a heart might feel it; but yet this was more—it was a soul's sorrow implanted by a mother's cares, watered by her tears, on the boy's countenance. Tremenhere looked at him, then at the old man—a memory crossed his imagination.

"Surely I have seen you before," he cried, gazing earnestly at d'EstrÉes.

"I think not, monsieur," said the other; but his voice trembled, for he, too, remembered him, and then he so ably recalled his father and d'EstrÉes's best friend to his mind; "for I am an old man, seldom leaving home." He spoke in French.

"Strange—strange!" he replied in thought; "you seem very familiar to me."

"And the boy?" asked Skaife; "is he not all I promised you?"

"He might have been hers," was the reply, which spoke volumes. He approached, and the child used to many strange faces looked fearlessly upon him, but with the strange, grave look we have before noticed. Tremenhere opened his arms, and the little boy's were around his neck, and the eyes, so like his own, fixed upon him. Something for the first time passed through the father's heart; he thought of his own, and involuntarily passed his hand over the head, where the golden curls were springing up, thick and clustering. He turned up the little unsmiling face, and his stern lip pressed the baby cheek.

"Bless you, my boy!" he whispered.

Strange, he never asked his name, or any thing about him, but gazed, and gazed on the face in bitterness of thought. As he did so, he turned towards the picture. The child stared a moment—the eyes distended—and then the whole sad face lighted up with a smile of angel beauty, as he paid the highest compliment which could be offered to Miles's art, by stretching forth his arms towards it; and the little tongue tried to syllable a name. The boy knew his mother!

D'EstrÉes and Skaife turned pale, as a hasty glance passed between them: they deemed it impossible so strange a recognition could pass unsuspected: they trembled for the moment of avowal. But Miles's mind was obscured from all thought of the truth; he only saw a childish rapture on beholding a picture; and again kissing the boy and hastily passing him to d'EstrÉes, seated himself at the easel, and beneath his pencil placed the outline of his boy in its mother's arms.

Tremenhere had resolved upon one thing both as a duty—a sacred one—and secondly, if possible, to give some more healthy tone to his heart, by the necessity for activity of mind and body. This was, to labour for the means of proceeding to Gibraltar, to seek proof of his mother's marriage. With his conviction of Minnie's innocence, this thought had sprung up with renewed vigour; for this reason he remained more at home, working at the picture for which his own unknown child was daily sitting. For this, when completed, he expected a large sum, with which he purposed at once proceeding to Gibraltar. Moreover, it was a labour of love, though of deep sorrow; for Minnie lived again before him, and the hours passed, in contemplating the face and form perfecting beneath his hand.

Lady Dora was lost in vain conjectures as to the cause of his estrangement; though a momentary doubt might arise, yet her unfailing pride came in to soothe her—"he durst not trust himself!" Thus she thought, and with this conviction arose a determination to go to his studio; this was not difficult of accomplishment. By a cleverly turned hint to her mother about Lord Randolph's impatience respecting her picture, Lady Ripley wrote, expressing a desire for its completion, as soon as he conveniently might attend to it; and soliciting an hour when Lady Dora might give him a sitting. This lady so arranged it, that her mother asked from herself without naming any impatience on her part, but Tremenhere smiled in scorn and triumph; for he saw the whole affair, as though it had been planned beneath his eye. He wrote, regretting much occupation had obliged him to banish himself from her ladyship's circle; for the happy indolence which there crept over him, unfitted him for other less pleasing occupations, but fixing an hour in which he should be too happy to see Lady Dora. Every line of this had been guardedly penned; and each word had a signification in that lady's eyes, flattering to herself. Lord Randolph had seen him several times, and always reported something about the mysteriously veiled picture; she was convinced in her own mind, that this was some portrait of herself, and she resolved, if practicable, to verify the fact; however, when she arrived there with an appearance of calm dignity, accompanied by her mother, nothing was to be seen but herself as Diana on the easel, and as unfinished as when she had last seen it. This confirmed her impression of some strange mystery; and Tremenhere's suffering face, which nothing could disguise, made her heart bound high in triumphant pride—it was suffering on her account. His manner still further strengthened this deep error on her part,—her mother accompanied her, consequently their words, beyond mere general ones, were few; still, when she spoke of his absenting himself from all society, the significance with which he whispered, "Better live with a sad memory, than a vain and dangerous reality," lost nothing of the effect he intended it to convey. The real truth was, he felt too worn in spirit, even for revenge sake, just then to continue his comedy with herself—he had only courage to suffer; but his absenting himself was as politic a thing as he could have done; and she left the studio with a tremor in her heart, of which she had thought herself incapable—one which not a little startled her yet rebelling pride, and made her look every hour with deeper gloom, or nervous excitement, on the preparations which were progressing for her marriage with Lord Randolph, whom she almost hated, and yet had not the courage to come to an open rupture with, lest Tremenhere should quite read her heart. She was bent upon bringing him to her feet, and then permitting a hope to gleam over his doubts.