He could restrain himself no longer. Opening the door, he
stepped hurriedly forward, and, throwing his arms around the group,
said in broken voice--"God bless you, my children!"
The tears that were shed; the smiles that beamed from glad faces;
the tender words that were spoken, and repeated again and again; why
need we tell of all these? Or why relate how happy the old man was
when the dove that had flown from her nest came back with her mate
by her side The dark year had passed, and there was sunshine again
in his dwelling, brighter sunshine than before. Pierre never painted
so good a picture again as the one that took the prize--that was his
masterpiece.
The Young Baron Holbein has an immense picture gallery, and is a
munificient patron of the arts. There is one composition on his
walls he prizes above all the rest. The wealth of India could not
purchase it. It is the same that took the prize when he was but a
babe and lay in his mother's arms. The mother who held him so
tenderly, and the father who gazed so lovingly upon her pure young
brow have passed away, but they live before him daily, and he feels
their gentle presence ever about him for good.
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