"Sir," said Natalie, as he paused, "Nantucket is my home; often have I listened to my dear brother, as he has told me the pretty story of the sad gentleman whom he met, when I was but an infant, and how he spoke to me so tenderly, and sighed for his own Natalie. I had no other name then but Sea-flower, and I have been called by that name ever since; yet after that day, my Christian name was Natalie."
The artist gazed upon her, and pointing to the Madonna, exclaimed,--"Thou art the child! you are like the Madonna! Can it be that I have unconsciously restored to the mother her child? None other than her own could thus resemble her!"
"In my innermost heart there has ever dwelt a mystery, which I can find no language to describe! In my dreams I have had sweet visions of a beauteous being, who has smiled upon me, and made me happy. The Madonna awakens all those pure feelings, and I cannot but look upon her as in some way connected with my being; yet my own mother lives, and my affection for her is as for no other being upon the earth."
"She is in heaven," mused the artist.
At this moment the door opened, and who should enter but Clarence Delwood, who was much surprised to find Natalie thus unattended, in earnest conversation with the mysterious artist. She arose as he entered, and presented him to the gentleman, but she had not yet learned his name. The artist presented his card to Delwood, assuming the same frigid manner which had become his nature. Delwood gave one glance at the Madonna.
"How is this, sir," asked he, in an excited manner, "that you have made use of this lady's face to attract the notice of a vulgar public to your works? Who gave you authority for such assurance as this, sir?"
"Calm yourself, Clarence," said the Sea-flower, mildly, "the gentleman had never seen me, to his knowledge, until this morning. It rather becomes us to apologize for this intrusion upon the sacred memory of his child."
Mr. Delwood listened with astonishment to the information which we have just learned, and his eyes wandered from the beautiful Madonna to the no less beautiful being, whom he hoped, at no distant day, to call his own, while a thought filled his soul with delight, and he said to himself,--"I knew that she was infinitely above me, though outward circumstances would make her of no particular distinction."
"Yes, there is a meaning in this, a mystery to be solved. Who is she?--this pure being. And your mother still lives," mused the artist; "do you resemble her?"
"I am unlike any one of my family, so much so that strangers have noted it."