ome
comfort to that bare room. A good fire was burning, and the bed on which
the man lay was covered with blankets.

There was wine, too, and food; and thus, all unawares, the daughter had
performed a daughter's duty, and had ministered to the comfort of the
last sad hours of that wasted life.

But it were vain to try to tell how Griselda's whole nature shrank from
this sudden revelation--how the impulse was strong to leave the room
before consciousness returned to the dying man--so intensely did she
dread the recognition which she knew must follow.

For Graves had risen from her knees; and, going to the table, had taken
a small case, and a letter from it, saying:

"He showed me these last night; they tell their own tale."

Poor little Norah had resumed her place by the bedside, exhausted with
her long watching. She had slipped down on the floor, and had fallen
into a doze. When Graves touched the case, she sprang up:

"No; you must not. Father said I was to let no one touch it till she
came. No----"

The movement, and the child's voice, roused the sick man. He opened his
large eyes, and looked about him--at first with no expression in them;
but presently those black, lack-lustre eyes became almost bright as he
fastened them on Griselda, and said, in a collected manner:

"Yes; I am glad I have lived to see you. Look! there is the portrait of
your mother, and a letter from her, in which is her wedding-ring. I
would not bury it with her; I kept it for you--her child--her only
child--_my_ child. Let me hear you call me 'father!' I was so cruel--so
base--she had to flee from me--my poor Phyllis!"

Griselda had opened the case, and stood irresolute with the portrait of
her mother in her hand. A lock of light hair was twisted into a curl,
fastened by a narrow band of small pearls.

The mother's face, lovely yet sad, looked up at the daughter's, and
seemed to express sympathy and pity for her.

Deeply had the mother suffered--would her child be like her in this, as
in outward form and semblance? The likeness was so unmistakable, that,
except for the different style of dress, the miniature might have been
painted as a portrait of Griselda herself.

"My mother!" she whispered softly; and, to the surprise of those who
stood by, the sick man said, in a voice very different from the raving
tones which had been ringing through the room and reaching to every part
of the house:

"Yes; your mother. I remember you, littl