d to his breast, dallied for a time, and then drew from it
the picture which he so jealously carried there. He pressed it
between his hands, sighed heavily from his care-crazed heart, and
strove to tell his meaning in words which would not flow, in which
he knew not how to breathe the bubble-thought that danced about his
brain. Closer than ever he approached me, and, with an air which he
intended for one of confidence and great regard, he invited me to
look upon his treasure. I did so, and, to my astonishment and
terror--gazed upon the portrait of the unhappy EMMA HARRINGTON.
Gracious God! what thoughts came rushing into my mind! It was
impossible to err. I, who had passionately dwelt upon those
lineaments in all the fondness of a devoted love, until the form
became my heart's companion by day and night--I, who had watched the
teardrops falling from those eyes, in which the limner had not
failed to fix the natural sorrow that was a part of them--watched
and hung upon them in distress and agony--I, surely I, could not
mistake the faithful likeness. Who, then, was _he_ that wore it? Who
was this, now standing at my side, to turn to whom again became
immediately--sickness--horror! Who could it be but him, the miserable
parricide--the outcast--the unhappy brother--the desperately wicked
son! There was no other in the world to whom the departed penitent
could be dear; and he--oh, was it difficult to suppose that merciful
Heaven, merciful to the guiltiest, had placed between his conscience
and his horrible offence a cloud that made all dim--had rendered his
understanding powerless to comprehend a crime which reason must have
punished and aggravated endlessly My judgment was prostrated by what
I learned so suddenly and fearfully. The discovery had been
miraculous. What should I do? How proceed? How had the youth got here?
What had been his history since his flight? Whither was he wandering?
Did he know the fate of his poor sister? How had he lived? These
questions, and others, crowded into my mind one after another, and I
trembled with the violent rapidity of thought. The figure of the
unhappy girl presented itself--her words vibrated on my ears--her
last dying accents; and I felt that to me was consigned the wretched
object of her solicitude and love--that to me Providence had
directed the miserable man; yes, if only that he who had shared in
the family guilt, might behold and profit by the living witness of
the household wre