“You remind me very much of—of a relative of mine,” he said abruptly, “you said your name was Smith?—or Peggy said so—Of course, there are a thousand Smiths about here, but Peggy said she had brought you here for a very special reason. I must beg you to tell me what it is at once. This relative of mine married a man named Smith. I don’t think I mentioned his name to you, Peggy?”
“No,” said Peggy, shaking her golden head. “If you had I’d have found him lots sooner!”
The old man looked quickly from one to another of the little group, and in a breathless rush of words Peggy told him all the similarities between his history and that of the young man.
“And if it doesn’t all match,” she cried, “then I’ll eat my Greek books!”
Mr. Huntington walked over to his desk,—a big, ancient affair with a dozen little curious drawers that pulled out by means of bright glass knobs. From the smallest of these he drew forth tremblingly all that it contained, a single photograph, and approaching the boy, held it out to him.
“Have you ever seen that face?” he asked tensely.
With a troubled air the young man took it and gazed straight into its pictured eyes, his face tightening as he did so.
“It’s—my mother,” he said simply, after a pause. “And I have a picture just like this one. Is it true, then, sir, all this romance these girls have given me a part in—and are you indeed my grandfather?”
There was a note of awe in his voice as he rose before the old man, holding out his hand.
The realization that a life-old dream, long since given up and buried in his mind with the things that were not to be, was actually coming true, that the very picture the library fire had conjured up for him evening after evening as he sat alone and lonely, gazing into its depths,—this, with its sudden rush of emotion, brought a kind of illumination to the figure of the old man as he stood there, and seemed to shed for a moment the passing glory of youth once more over his face.