Arrived at John's lodgings, he ushered the stranger into Gertrude's studio, of which she had given him the key when they parted, as she intended riding out with Rose. Motioning him to a seat, and adding that he would rejoin him presently, John left him there alone.
The stranger looked around; there were landscape, game, fruit, cattle, and flower pieces, and all so exquisitely painted that any other moment each would have been a study to him—now heart and brain were both pre-occupied. What was in store for him? He felt this to be a turning-point in his life.
A slight jar, and a picture, which stands with the back toward him, falls over. The stranger rises, and stoops to replace it!
Ah!—why that suppressed cry of joy? Why those passionate kisses on the insensible canvas? Why those fast-falling tears, and heart-beaming smiles?
"It is not your mamma—it is my mamma," said Charley, stepping up between the picture and the stranger.
"His own eyes! his own brow! and Rose's sweet mouth! his own, and Rose's child!
"My God, I thank thee!" he murmured; but the thin arms that were outstretched to clasp his new found treasure, fell powerless at his side. To sorrow he had become inured; he could not bear the out-gushing fountain of joy.
John, who had been an unseen spectator, had not looked for this tragic termination of his test. On his kind heart his rival's head was pillowed, his hand bathed his cold temples, his voice assisted returning consciousness.
"Who is he?" whispered Charley, tiptoeing up to John.