The girl wore a simple white muslin, high in the throat, where a quilling of soft lace was secured by a bunch of lemon blooms and violets; and around her coil of jet hair twined a long spray of Arabian jasmine that drooped almost to her shoulder.

One face star-eyed and beaming as Hope, with rosy dreams lurking about the curves of her perfect mouth; the other pale, dejected, yet uncomplaining, a lovely statue of Regret.

Very soon the white hand that wore the black agate, wandered across the daughter’s silky hair.

“Yonder goes the train; and Mr. Palma will be here in a few minutes.  How little I dreamed that cold, undemonstrative, selfish man would prove such a patient, tender lover!  Truly—­

        ‘Beauty hath made our greatest manhoods weak.’

Kiss me, my darling, before you go to meet him.  My blue-eyed baby! after to-morrow you will be mine no longer.  In the hearts of wives husbands supplant mothers, and reign supreme.  Do not speak, my love.  Only kiss me, and go.”

She bent over the face resting on her knee, and a moment after Regina, followed by the noble old dog, went down the circuitous walk leading to the iron gate.  On either side stood deodar cedars, and behind one of these she sat down on a rustic seat.

She had not waited long when footsteps approached, and Mr. Palma’s tall, handsome figure passed through the gate, accompanied by one who followed slowly.

“Lily!”

The lawyer passed his arm around her, drew her to his side, and whispered: 

“I bring you glad tidings.  I bring my darling a very precious bridal present—­her father.”

Turning quickly, he put her in Mr. Laurance’s arms.

“Can my daughter cordially welcome her unhappy and unworthy father?”

“Oh! how merciful God has been to me!  My father alive and safe—­really folding me to his heart?  Now my mother can rest, for now she can utter the forgiveness which her heart long ago pronounced; but which, having withheld at your painful parting interview, has so sorely weighed down her spirits.  Oh, how bright the world looks!  Thank God! at last mother can find peace.”

Looking fondly at her radiant face, Mr. Laurance asked in an unsteady voice: 

“Will my Minnie’s child plead with her, for the long-lost husband of her youth?”

“Oh, father! there is no need.  Her love must have triumphed long ago over the sense of cruel wrong and the memory of the past, for since we learned that you were among those who perished she has silently mourned as only a wife can for the husband she loves.  Because she sees in my face the reflex of yours, it has of late grown doubly dear to her; and sometimes at night when she believes me asleep, she touches me softly, and whispers, ‘My Cuthbert’s baby.’  But why have you so long allowed us to believe you were lost on that vessel?”