The woman looked at her, without speaking a word.

“Your husband is alive and well; and faithful old Vingo is at this moment in my mother’s family, where his wants, spiritual and temporal, are cared for; and he has often told me, if he could but once again see his wife, Phillis, he should die happy.”

The woman gave one long, piercing cry, and sank upon the floor.  At this instant the artist issued from an adjoining apartment, and stood gazing upon the scene.

“My God! what do I see?” exclaimed the gentleman, in a voice which instantly riveted the Sea-flower’s attention upon him.

“Tell me! in mercy tell me who thou art!” and he leaned against a column for support.

Had Natalie been heir to that weakness which is somewhat characteristic of the gentler sex, she might have been terrified at such deep, impassioned language from a perfect stranger, trembling with the certainty that she stood face to face with a lunatic; but no such fear was hers.  Advancing, she bowed low, in honor to his superior age, saying, “pardon me, if I am an intruder here; yet, sir, an apology is needless, for who can resist the grace and beauty which is here displayed?  My presence, sir, has evidently disturbed you, and if you will permit me to ask one question, I will retire;—­the Madonna, that face of an angel, is she the pure production of your own soul, or can it be that such as she has indeed been amongst us?”

“She has been, and has passed away!—­has passed away,” he repeated to himself; “I never thought to meet her again until the dark river had been crossed! but what do I see?” and he passed his hand over his eyes, as if to assure himself that he were not dreaming.

No, it was no dream; a gentle, living form stood before him who had sorrowed for his only child nearly twenty long years, and was devoutly regarding those inanimate features to which his soul had clung, as if it were of life; and his eye now wandered from the animate to the inanimate,—­the beauteous countenance of the Madonna.  It was not unlike that of the Sea-flower; the features were the same.  Regaining his composure, the artist proceeded, in a peculiarly mellow tone of voice—­

“Dear lady, you will pardon my seemingly ill-mannered reception of you, I know, when you have heard what has never yet passed my lips to any mortal!  Near twenty years have expired since I left my cherished home, on the other side of the Atlantic, and came to America.  I met with sorrow at an early age; the young wife of my choice was taken from me, and I should have been overwhelmed with grief, had not the precious boon left to me by her, claimed my heart-felt love; the beautiful babe smiled upon me, and I felt rebuked in spirit that I should thus murmur at God’s will, when in his loving kindness he had spared to me this, her very likeness, and I came to smile again.  I could then smile upon his chastening rod, but,”—­and a deep shudder thrilled his frame, “I have since been led to ask myself if there is a God!  O! can a good God thus afflict his children?”