‘Did she resemble her father?’ inquired Mrs. Colton.
‘Perhaps I can settle that question more easily than any one,’ said Harson, rising up, ‘by letting you judge for yourself.’
He went to a small curtain which hung against the wall, and drawing it aside, disclosed a portrait of Rust’s daughter—the same which Rust had brooded over with such mingled emotions on the night previous to the murder. The same childlike, innocent smile, played round the small, dimpled mouth; the same calm, thoughtful expression of intellect mingled with gentleness, shone out of the eyes. All was as it was when father and child last looked upon it—the criminal and her accuser. Every line was unaltered; but where were they? Dust! They had acted their part on earth; their love, their hate, their fears, their remorse, were past. The tide of time was hurrying on, bringing life and death, and hopes and fears to others, but sweeping from the earth all trace of their footsteps. To them forever, aye even until the last trump, time and thought, and care and feeling, had no existence!
Mrs. Colton’s eyes filled with tears as she gazed upon the picture. ‘She deserved a happier fate,’ said she, in a subdued tone, as if she feared to disturb the spell which seemed to hang about it.
‘It was ordained for the best,’ replied Harson, in a grave tone, as he regarded the portrait with a kind of solemn interest. Then, after a moment, he added: ‘That was her, before want and suffering had laid their iron finger upon her. When I saw her, she was dead. She was very beautiful even then; but in the short time that had elapsed since her father’s imprisonment, the work of years had been performed; she seemed much older and thinner, and more care-worn.’
‘How did you get this?’ inquired Mr. Colton, pointing to the picture.
‘A friend of mine, the person who aided the girl in her last moments, accidentally learned that it was for sale, and begged me to buy it. He was too poor to do it, and I was willing to gratify him; and so the picture became mine.’
Mr. Colton looked at him for a few moments, as if on the point of making some remark, and then walked to the other end of the room and took a seat without a word. He was aroused by the child climbing on his knee, and putting her arms about his neck.
‘God protect you, my child!’ said he, laying his hand affectionately on her head; ‘may you never know the misery which has fallen upon that poor girl!’
The words were intended to be inaudible, but they reached the ear of his wife, who going up to him, and laying her hand on his arm, said in a low voice: ‘Come, come, George, do not give way to these feelings. You must not be gloomy.’