“Don’t you remember that it was our bush, the one we chose when you were here on a visit? Our white rose bush, Barbara. That you should not have forgotten, after all these years!” Then his memory came back. “But what am I saying?” he exclaimed. “My mind often gets confused. It was the likeness, I suppose. I want you to see this portrait of your grand-aunt.”
He went over to a desk near the window and drew from one of its drawers an old daguerreotype.
“It is very, very like,” he murmured, as he handed it to Barbara.
It was, indeed, even more like the present Bab than the miniature which the hermit had treasured during his years of solitude.
“I want you to keep this picture, Barbara,” said Stephen’s uncle. “I have another one, and it will be a pleasure to me, at the last, to know that it belongs to another Barbara Thurston. This ring must also be yours.” He drew from the desk a little black velvet case. “It was a ring I gave to her after we were engaged. Will you wear it for me!”
Barbara opened the case and slipped the ring on her finger. It was a very old ring of beaten silver with a sapphire setting.
“Thank you,” she said and gave him her hand.
“Good-bye, little Barbara!” cried the old man. “You have brought peace to me at last. You and my dear friend, Richard. I have changed a great deal, you see,” he was lapsing back into the old mania, “but you are as young and pretty as ever, Barbara.”
“It is time to go,” whispered Stephen, hurriedly. The attendant had already opened the door for them and they slipped out together.
“The hermit has promised to come and see him every day,” said Stephen, as they hastened through the passage. “Indeed, Uncle John has invited the hermit to live at Ten Eyck Hall for the rest of his days, and he has all but consented. He is a wonderful old man, I think, and whether he swam off and left ‘you’ or not, he has atoned for it after all these years.”