The girl bounded to his chair, passed her arms round the old man’s neck, and kissed his forehead; then nestling herself at his feet, and leaning her clasped hands caressingly on his knee, she said,—
“Grandpapa, I have brought you somebody you must love. He has been so kind to Fanny.”
“And neither of you can remember me!” said the guest.
The old man, whose dull face seemed to indicate dotage, half raised himself at the sound of the stranger’s voice. “Who is that?” said he, with a feeble and querulous voice. “Who wants me?”
“I am the friend of your lost son. I am he who, ten years go, brought Fanny to your roof, and gave her to your care—your son’s last charge. And you blessed your son, and forgave him, and vowed to be a father to his Fanny.” The old man, who had now slowly risen to his feet, trembled violently, and stretched out his hands.
“Come near—near—let me put my hands on your head. I cannot see you; but Fanny talks of you, and prays for you; and Fanny—she has been an angel to me!”
The stranger approached and half knelt as the old man spread his hands over his head, muttering inaudibly. Meanwhile Fanny, pale as death—her lips apart—an eager, painful expression on her face—looked inquiringly on the dark, marked countenance of the visitor, and creeping towards him inch by inch, fearfully touched his dress—his arms—his countenance.
“Brother,” she said at last, doubtingly and timidly, “Brother, I thought I could never forget you! But you are not like my brother; you are older;—you are—you are!—no! no! you are not my brother!”
“I am much changed, Fanny; and you too!”
He smiled as he spoke; and the smile—sweet and pitying—thoroughly changed the character of his face, which was ordinarily stern, grave, and proud.