ar, my husband descended from a French family," she said one
evening, finding her in the picture-gallery, where she so loved to be,
as usual passing from picture to picture, and always stopping at that of
Madame Giche's son, to think over the sad tale, and to wonder where that
little child was whom Madame Giche had never found. "Yes, dear, he was
of French family. Some said my son was like him, but I think he was more
like me;" and the aged lady regarded his portrait fondly, standing
behind her little guest.

"I think he's very much like you, dear Madame Giche; and, do you know,
he always reminds me of mamma; 'tis the eyes, I think--they look at me
so!" There came a quiver into the child's voice.

"Were mamma's eyes dark?" questioned Madame Giche.

"Oh, no! Mamma's eyes are like mine. People say I am very like mamma."

"And papa--what is he like?"

"He is dark, and--and that is all."

"An artist, is he not?"

"Yes; he was painting the portrait of the gentleman with whom he's gone
abroad when--when he was taken ill"--the child's sweet grey eyes filled
with tears. "He broke a blood-vessel, and--and 'twas said he would die
if he spent the winter in England."

"And so the gentleman took him abroad?"

"Yes; it was very kind of him. A Mr. Mortimer--his father was rich once,
only he lost his estate, so his son was poor, only he married a rich
lady; and they are so happy, and Mrs. Mortimer is so beautiful," went on
the child.

"Mortimer! Mortimer!"--the ancient lady shook her head. "No, I don't
know the name," she sighed, looking at her son's picture again.

"I wonder where the little boy is, Madame Giche?" said Inna, out of the
silence that followed, noting the aged mother's fond gaze.

"Little boy, dear?" was the dreamy response.

"Yes, Madame Giche, your dear little grandson."

"My dear, he's not a little boy--he's thirty-three years of age--that
is, if he's living."

"Oh, how strange! why, he is just as old as papa, and I keep fancying
him a little boy."

"No, dear, no," sighed Madame Giche. "And so papa is thirty-three?" she
asked.

"Yes, just the age of Mr. Mortimer; they kept their last birthday
together--you know--in Italy," was the quivering response. She could not
speak of her absent ones so calmly as her aged friend.

"But papa is better, is he not, my dear?" questioned Madame Giche
cheerfully, noting the tremor in her voice.

"Oh, yes! and seeing and doing so much, he is almost well--and--and