me, look up, and let me see your sweet old face."

His voice was broken with emotion. How he loved that one whom he
called his "dear old nurse!"

"Look up, old woman. Look up. Let me see your face. You don't know
how dear it is to me."

And Mrs. Hart raised her face, and in her face he read a love
infinite, all-consuming, imperishable--a love which now, however,
satiated and intoxicated itself in the look that she gave.

She said nothing more, but, clinging to him, she seemed to hold him
to her weary heart as though she feared that something might take him
away.

"Forgive me, my own; do not be angry, my dearest," she murmured,
"with your poor old nurse. I left home long, long ago. I rose from my
sick-bed to seek you. I came here, and have watched and watched for a
long time. Oh, how long! But you never came."

"You! watching for me! here in Florence!" exclaimed Lord Chetwynde,
in wonder. "My poor old dear! why?"

"I will tell you again--not now--I am too weak. Hold my hands fast,
my own. Let me see your dear face--oh, how dear!"

And with her hands in his, and her eyes feeding her soul upon his
face, she lay upon his breast.

Meanwhile Obed Chute had stood thunderstruck. To account for this
amazing scene was so utterly impossible that he did not even attempt
it. That was beyond the reach of human capacity. But he noted all
that holy tenderness, and that unfathomable love which beamed from
that wan, worn face, and he felt that this was not a scene for other
eyes. He went softly over to Zillah, who had stood motionless
hitherto, and taking her hand he led her solemnly out of the room.

They went into another apartment, and sat there in silence. Zillah
was so filled with amazement that it overwhelmed her.

She had seen Mrs. Hart's joy. She had heard her give to Windham the
name of "Guy." She had heard him call her those tender, well-known
names--the fond names with which the letters of Guy Molyneux used
always to be filled. What did all this mean?

God in heaven! Was this a dream, or a reality? Could there, indeed,
be truth in this scene? Could this be possibly what it seemed to be?
Was Windham Guy Molyneux?

The question was too bewildering. A thousand circumstances at once
suggested themselves as that question arose. All the past came back
before her, with the scenes and the words of that past. She
remembered now Windham's saying that he was married, and that he
hated his wife worse than death. What did