could bear, and live. Then all at once I thought of the
stranger whom I had seen in the vestibule of the prison, and I was sure
it was he. But who was he, and why had he come? I was obliged to stop at
the door, to command my agitation, so nervous had I been made by the
shock from which I had not yet recovered. My cheeks burned, but my hands
were cold as ice.

Yes, it was he. The moment I opened the door, I recognized him, the
stately stranger of the Tombs. He was standing in front of the beautiful
painting of the fortress, and his face was from me. But he turned at my
entrance, and advanced eagerly to meet me. He was excessively pale, and
varying emotions swept over his countenance, like clouds drifted by a
stormy wind. Taking both my hands in his, he drew me towards him, with a
movement I had no power to resist, and looked in my face with eyes in
which every passion of the soul seemed concentrated, but in which joy
like a sun-ray shone triumphant.

Even before he opened his arms and clasped me to his bosom, I felt an
invisible power drawing me to his heart, and telling me I had a right to
be there.

"Gabriella! child of my Rosalie! my own lost darling!" he exclaimed, in
broken accents, folding me closer and closer in his arms, as if fearing
I would vanish from his embrace. "Gracious God! I thank thee,--Heavenly
Father! I bless thee for this hour. After long years of mourning, and
bereavement, and loneliness, to find a treasure so dear, to feel a joy
so holy! Oh, my God, what shall I render unto Thee for all thy
benefits!"

Then he bowed his head on my neck, and I felt hot tears gushing from his
eyes, and sobs, like the deep, passionate sobs of childhood, convulsing
his breast.

Yes, he _was_ my father. I knew it,--I felt it, as if the voice of God
had spoken from the clouds of heaven to proclaim it. He was my father,
the beloved of my angelic mother, and he had never wronged her, never.
He had not been the deceiver, but the deceived. Without a word of
explanation I believed this, for it was written as if in sunbeams on his
noble brow. The dreams of my childhood were all embodied in him; and
overpowered by reverence, love, gratitude, and joy, I slid from his
arms, and on bended knees and with clasped hands, looked up in his face
and repeated again and again the sacred name of "Father."

It is impossible to describe such bewildering, such intense emotions.
Seldom, except in dreams, are they felt, when the spirit s