"Yes, I knew little Zaidee—poor little darling!"
"Was she as beautiful as the portrait a great artist made of her? There is one that hangs in my room at my old home. It is beautiful as an angel, and papa used to come there often to look at it. I don't think he cared for my step-mother to know how often he came."
"Zaidee was more beautiful than the portrait," answered the old man, in a low voice.
He pressed her little hand tenderly as it rested on his arm, and said:
"Tell me all that you know about your mother, my child."
"They have told me that she died by her own hand. Was it not terrible?" whispered the young girl, with paling lips.
"Terrible!" he echoed, with emotion; and then she asked:
"Uncle Ben, who was to blame for that awful tragedy?"
"No one," he answered, sadly. "Zaidee was passionate, willful, jealous. She became madly jealous of a governess—a young widow who was employed in the house to teach her painting and music. Before poor Vincent at all comprehended the situation, his young wife, in a fit of anger, destroyed herself by thrusting a little jeweled dagger into her breast."