soon subsided, and, in
the sweet calm that followed, the father gazed with unspeakable
tenderness for a long time upon the face of his lovely child, and
with a new and sweeter feeling upon the babe that lay, the
impersonation of innocence, in her arms. While in this state of
mind, he saw, for the first time, written on the bottom of the
picture--"NOT GREAT, BUT HAPPY."

A week from the day on which the picture was received, the Baron
Holbein entered Florence. On inquiring for Pierre Delebarre, he
found that every one knew the young artist.

"Come," said one, "let me go with you to the exhibition, and show
you his picture that has taken the prize. It is a noble production.
All Florence is alive with its praise."

The baron went to the exhibition. The first picture that met his
eyes on entering the door was a counterpart of the one he had
received, but larger, and, in the admirable lights in which it was
arranged, looked even more like life.

"Isn't it a grand production?" said the baron's conductor.

"My sweet, sweet child!" murmured the old man, in a low thrilling
voice. Then turning, he said, abruptly--

"Show me where I can find this Pierre Delebarre."

"With pleasure. His house is near at hand," said his companion.

A few minutes walk brought them to the artist's dwelling.

"That is an humble roof," said the man, pointing to where Pierre
lived, "but it contains a noble man." He turned away, and the baron
entered alone. He did not pause to summon any one, but walked in
through the open door. All was silent. Through a neat vestibule, in
which were rare flowers, and pictures upon the wall, he passed into
a small apartment, and through that to the door of an inner chamber
It was half open. He looked in. Was it another picture? No, it was
in very truth his child; and her babe lay in her arms, as he had
just seen it, and Pierre sat before her looking tenderly in her
face. 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 sunshin