“I had seen her, already, and now I saw him.  He lived only in memory, and his memory was a spacious and stately palace.  But he did not oftenest frequent the banqueting hall, where were endless hospitality and feasting—­nor did he loiter much in reception rooms, where a throng of new visitors was forever swarming—­nor did he feed his vanity by haunting the apartment in which were stored the trophies of his varied triumphs—­nor dream much in the great gallery hung with pictures of his travels.  But from all these lofty halls of memory he constantly escaped to a remote and solitary chamber, into which no one had ever penetrated.  But my fatal eyes, behind the glasses, followed and entered with him, and saw that the chamber was a chapel.  It was dim, and silent, and sweet with perpetual incense that burned upon an altar before a picture forever veiled.  There, whenever I chanced to look, I saw him kneel and pray; and there, by day and by night, a funeral hymn was chanted.

“I do not believe you will be surprised that I have been content to remain deputy bookkeeper.  My spectacles regulated my ambition, and I early learned that there were better gods than Plutus.  The glasses have lost much of their fascination now, and I do not often use them.  Sometimes the desire is irresistible.  Whenever I am greatly interested, I am compelled to take them out and see what it is that I admire.

“And yet—­and yet,” said Titbottom, after a pause, “I am not sure that I thank my grandfather.”

Prue had long since laid away her work, and had heard every word of the story.  I saw that the dear woman had yet one question to ask, and had been earnestly hoping to hear something that would spare her the necessity of asking.  But Titbottom had resumed his usual tone, after the momentary excitement, and made no further allusion to himself.  We all sat silently; Titbottom’s eyes fastened musingly upon the carpet:  Prue looking wistfully at him, and I regarding both.

It was past midnight, and our guest arose to go.  He shook hands quietly, made his grave Spanish bow to Prue, and taking his hat, went towards the front door.  Prue and I accompanied him.  I saw in her eyes that she would ask her question.  And as Titbottom opened the door, I heard the low words: 

“And Preciosa?”

Titbottom paused.  He had just opened the door and the moonlight streamed over him as he stood, turning back to us.

“I have seen her but once since.  It was in church, and she was kneeling with her eyes closed, so that she did not see me.  But I rubbed the glasses well, and looked at her, and saw a white lily, whose stem was broken, but which was fresh; and luminous, and fragrant, still.”

“That was a miracle,” interrupted Prue.

“Madam, it was a miracle,” replied Titbottom, “and for that one sight I am devoutly grateful for my grandfather’s gift.  I saw, that although a flower may have lost its hold upon earthly moisture, it may still bloom as sweetly, fed by the dews of heaven.”