There was an aching void in bosom. Night after night he
would dream of his child, and awake in the morning and sigh that the
dream was not reality. But pride was strong--he would not
countenance her disobedience.
More than a year had passed away, and not one word had come from his
absent one, who grew dearer to his heart every day. Once or twice he
had seen the name of Pierre Delebarre in the journals, as a young
artist residing Florence, who was destined, to become eminent. The
pleasure these announcements gave him was greater than he would
confess, even to himself.
One day he was sitting in his library endeavoring to banish the
images that haunted him too continually, when two of his servants
entered, bearing a large square box in their arms, marked for the
Baron Holbein. When the box was opened, it was found to contain a
large picture, enveloped in a cloth. This was removed and placed
against the wall, and the servants retired with the box. The baron,
with unsteady hands, and a heart beating rapidly, commenced removing
the cloth that still held the picture from view. In a few moments a
family group was before him.
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