smile, played round the small,
dimpled mouth; the same calm, thoughtful expression of intellect mingled
with gentleness, shone out of the eyes. All was as it was when father and
child last looked upon it--the criminal and her accuser. Every line was
unaltered; but where were they? DUST! They had acted their part on earth;
their love, their hate, their fears, their remorse, were past. The tide of
time was hurrying on, bringing life and death, and hopes and fears to
others, but sweeping from the earth all trace of their footsteps. To them
forever, aye even until the last trump, time and thought, and care and
feeling, had no existence!

Mrs. Colton's eyes filled with tears as she gazed upon the picture. 'She
deserved a happier fate,' said she, in a subdued tone, as if she feared to
disturb the spell which seemed to hang about it.

'It was ordained for the best,' replied Harson, in a grave tone, as he
regarded the portrait with a kind of solemn interest. Then, after a
moment, he added: 'That _was_ her, before want and suffering had laid
their iron finger upon her. When I saw her, she was dead. She was very
beautiful even then; but in the short time that had elapsed since her
father's imprisonment, the work of years had been performed; she seemed
much older and thinner, and more care-worn.'

'How did you get this?' inquired Mr. Colton, pointing to the picture.

'A friend of mine, the person who aided the girl in her last moments,
accidentally learned that it was for sale, and begged me to buy it. He was
too poor to do it, and I was willing to gratify him; and so the picture
became mine.'

Mr. Colton looked at him for a few moments, as if on the point of making
some remark, and then walked to the other end of the room and took a seat
without a word. He was aroused by the child climbing on his knee, and
putting her arms about his neck.

'God protect you, my child!' said he, laying his hand affectionately on
her head; 'may you never know the misery which has fallen upon that poor
girl!'

The words were intended to be inaudible, but they reached the ear of his
wife, who going up to him, and laying her hand on his arm, said in a low
voice: 'Come, come, George, do not give way to these feelings. You must
not be gloomy.'

He looked at her sadly, and then placing his finger on his heart, said:
'Is not what has been going on here, for years, enough to wither to the
root every feeling of cheerfulness, so that it should never