Griselda had opened the case, and stood irresolute with the portrait of her mother in her hand. A lock of light hair was twisted into a curl, fastened by a narrow band of small pearls.
The mother's face, lovely yet sad, looked up at the daughter's, and seemed to express sympathy and pity for her.
Deeply had the mother suffered—would her child be like her in this, as in outward form and semblance? The likeness was so unmistakable, that, except for the different style of dress, the miniature might have been painted as a portrait of Griselda herself.
"My mother!" she whispered softly; and, to the surprise of those who stood by, the sick man said, in a voice very different from the raving tones which had been ringing through the room and reaching to every part of the house:
"Yes; your mother. I remember you, little Griselda—little Griselda. I took you to Longueville, and left you there. You cried then to leave me; you weep now to find me. Well, it is just. I have been a wicked wretch; I have but little breath left—but take my poor little one out of this—this stage-life. Take her, and try to love her; she is your sister."
"I will," Griselda said. "I shall have a home soon—she shall share it."
"I thought as much—I hoped as much. He looks worthy of you, Griselda. Norah," he said, "this is your sister—your princess, as you call her; she will care for you. You will be a good little maid to her?"
"Yes, father," Norah said; and then, with touching simplicity, she put her little hand into Griselda's, and, looking up at her, she saw tears were coursing each other down her cheeks.
"Will you pray for me?" the dying man said. "Pray that I may be forgiven."
"Pray for yourself, father," Griselda whispered.