She thrust a letter from Mrs. Church into his hand, and he read where his wife pointed.  “Someone who loves you will tell you if it is becoming or not.”  And on the following page.  “Kiss my saucy Brother for me.  I call him my Brother with an air of pride.  And tell him, Il est l’homme le plus aimable du monde.”

“It is charming,” said Hamilton, pinching his wife’s chin.  “It is like a frame.  You never looked half so sweet.”

Betsey cooed with delight.  Hamilton, having done his duty, was about to retire in good order, when he met his little daughter’s eyes.  They had dismissed the wonderful cap and were fixed on him with an expression that gave him a sudden thrill.  It was not the first time he had seen in Angelica so strong a resemblance to his mother that he half believed some fragment of Rachael Levine had come back to him.  Her eyes were dark, but she had a mane of reddish fair hair, and a skin as white as porcelain, a long sensitive nose, and a full mobile mouth.  She had none of his mother’s vitality and dash, however.  She was delicate and rather shrinking, and he knew that Rachael at her age must have been a marvel of mental and physical energy.  It was only occasionally, when he turned suddenly and caught Angelica staring at him, that he experienced the odd sensation of meeting his mother’s eyes, informed, moreover, with an expression of penetrating comprehension—­an expression he recalled without effort.  The child idolized him.  She sat outside his study while he wrote, crawling in between the legs of anyone who opened the door? to sit at his feet; or, if he dismissed her, in another part of the room until he left it.  She watched for his daily returns, and usually greeted him from the banister post.  Amiable, intelligent, pretty, affectionate, and already putting forth the tender leaves of a great gift, her father thought her quite perfect, and they had long conversations whenever he was at leisure in his home.  She demanded a great deal of petting, and he was always ready to humour her, the more as she was the only girl, and the one quiet member of his little family—­although she had been known to use her fists upon occasion.  Her prettiness and intelligence delighted him, her affection was one of the deepest pleasures of his life, and he was thankful for the return to him of his mother’s beautiful and singular features.  To-day the resemblance was so striking that he contracted his eyelids.  Angelica straightened herself, gave a spring, and alighted on his chest.

“Take me downstairs and talk to me,” she commanded. “’Tis nearly an hour to dinner.”

Hamilton swung her to his shoulder, and went downstairs.  On the way he laughed out loud.  The past half-hour tossed itself into the foreground of his mind, clad in the skirts of high comedy.  Tragedy fled.  The burden in his breast went with it.  Far be it from him to cherish a grudge against the sex that so often reduced the trials of public life to insignificance.  Women were delicious irresponsible beings; man was an ingrate to take their shortcomings seriously.