As Gertrude's tears fell fast upon the precious words, and George and Mr. Dugdale looked at her, distressed and yet glad, Rose Doran came to her side, and said, while she dried her eyes as if she were still the child she had nursed: "There, there, alanna, didn't I tell you it wasn't _her_ fault at all, but _his_? and now you see for yourself it's true, and you'll go away with an easier mind. And, mark my words, it's coming right--it's coming right by degrees, and it will all come right in the end." Mr. Dugdale still kept late hours, as he had done all his life. Mrs. Doran left him at the usual hour in more than his accustomed spirits, and not apparently fatigued by the unusual emotion of the day. When he was alone, the old man passed some time in reading; then he closed his book and gave himself up to thought. His thoughts were seemingly very peaceful, and not sad; for there was a calm and patient smile upon the worn face, to which old age had brought a serene dignity. His large deeply-cushioned arm-chair moved easily upon its castors, and, after a period of profound stillness, he rolled himself in the chair towards a writing-table, on which a lamp was burning. He unlocked a deep drawer, the lowest of a set on his right-hand, and took out two objects. One was his will, which he spread out upon the table and read attentively. Then muttering to himself, "A few kind words to Nelly,--God help her, poor child!" he wrote half-a-dozen lines on the reverse of one of the pages of the document, and appended his initials in a clear and steady hand. This done, he replaced the paper in the drawer, and turned his attention to the other object he had taken out. It was the portrait of Margaret, in its beautiful setting of passion-flowers in jeweller's work of enamel and gold. There was reverential tenderness in the old man's touch as he placed the picture upright before him, opened the screens of golden filigree, and "fell to such perusal" of it as had been familiar to him since the coffin-lid had closed over the face it feebly shadowed forth. The minutes fled by as he gazed upon the likeness of the beautiful spiritual face which had gone down to the grave in untouched loveliness; and a glass upon his dressing-table alongside reflected his bowed head, sunken features, bent shadowy figure, and thin gray hair. Now and then a few unconnected murmurs escaped his lips, but rarely; while his gaze remained fixed, and a solemn peacefulness spread over his face. "The same eyes in heaven," he whispered, "the same smile. How many years have I looked for them, and longed for them--how many, many years! I shall go to _her_; but she has not been waiting and watching for _me_. No, no; heaven has been full enough to her all this time with _him_ there." He changed the position of the picture slightly, and leaned his head back against the cushion in his chair, looking at the face from a greater distance; then stretched out his folded hands and rested them upon the table.