Emily had to be saluted cordially, and both her little arms were
entwined around his neck.

"Now, now, little lady," said Louis, "go to thy royal mother, I have
something to show thee," and taking off the wrappings of the mysterious
package, he placed two life-size portraits before us, saying as he did
so:

"Companion pieces, my life's saving angels--behold yourself, my Emily,
see my fairy mother," and sure enough there we were. A glance at Clara
caused me to exclaim:

"Wilmur Benton painted them."

"Yes, both," he replied. "Are they not beautiful?"

"Mine is not, I am sure, Louis; but your mother's,--oh, how lovely it
is, and as natural as life! It must be the one to which Mary referred."

"It is, my Emily. I secured it long ago, and Mr. Benton has been a long
time at work on yours. He is sadly afflicted, and does not look like the
same man. His wife is dead, and I think he will not himself stay long. I
have been to see him always when in Boston, and would have told you all
before, had I not feared you might, by getting hold of one thread, find
another; Hal knows all about it. But see, Emily, just see yourself as
you are. I told you your eyes should speak from the canvas, and is it
not as well as if my own hand had held the brush?"

I looked the words I could not say, and wondered how it came that this
likeness should have been painted without my being before the artist. It
was years since Wilmur Benton left us, and the picture represented me at
my present age, I thought, and I asked:

"How did he get the expression, Louis?"

"Oh, Emily, he remembered every outline of your face, and with the
greatest ease defined them! Then from time to time, I sat near and
suggested here or there a change, until at last the work was perfected,
which in all its beauty only tells the truth; you do not see yourself
when your face lights up with glorious thought; the depth of your eyes
was to me always a study, and this man, Emily, carries in his heart
to-day the knowledge of your worth; he holds you and my little mother in
fond remembrance. His soul is purified by suffering, and this last visit
I made him has given him strength to tell me his whole life. When with a
sigh he ended his story, he looked at me sorrowfully, and said:

"'I suppose you will despise me now, but I feel that after all your
kindness I must tell you, for it is right you should know. Halbert, I
have never told--it is as well not to do so.'"

"Poor fellow