ess than a month the baron missed his child. A
letter explained all. She had been wedded to the young peasant, and
they had left for Florence. The letter contained this clause, signed
by both Pierre and Nina:--

"When our father will forgive us, and permit our return, we shall be
truly happy--but not till then."

The indignant old man saw nothing but impertinent assurance in this.
He tore up the letter, and trampled it under his feet, in a rage. He
swore to renounce his child forever!

For the Baron Holbein, the next twelve months were the saddest of
his life. Too deeply was the image of his child impressed upon his
heart, for passion to efface it. As the first ebullitions subsided,
and the atmosphere of his mind grew clear again, the sweet face of
his child was before him, and her tender eyes looking into his own.
As the months passed away, he grew more and more restless and
unhappy. 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. There sat Nina, his lovely, loving and
beloved child, as perfect, almost, as if the blood were glowing in
her veins. Her eyes were bent fondly upon a sleeping cherub that lay
in her arms. By her side sat Pierre, gazing upon her face in silent
joy. For only a single instant did the old man gaze upon this scene,
before the tears were gushing over his cheeks and falling to the
floor like rain. This wild storm of feeling