Proudly the grandfather stood with the chubby arm around his neck and the dimpled fingers patting his cheek. The sunlight fell in a broad illumination over the head and face of the child, kindling into flame the masses of tumbled curls which showed the same rich mahogany tint that had always made Hamilton Van Rensselaer’s head a distinguished mark in any company. The baby’s eyes were a wonderful gray, which even now held flashes of steel—albeit flashes of fun and not of passion. As the man looked, they mirrored back his own startlingly. In the round baby cheeks were two dimples strikingly placed, the counterpart of two that daring Nature had triflingly set in the otherwise stern countenance of the man. The likeness was marvellous. In sheer astonishment the man gazed at the child, and then as he looked the baby frowned, and he saw his own face in miniature, identical even to the sternness which was the prevailing expression of his countenance. Suddenly the man felt that he stood before God and was being judged and rebuked for his treatment of the dead. The awful remorse that stung his soul burst forth in a single sentence which was wrung from him by an unseen force: "Why did you never tell me?" He flashed the rebuke at the old man, but the dark eyes under the heavy white brows only looked at him the more steadily and did not flinch, as if they would tell him to look to himself for an answer to his question. The steady gaze did its work. It was the Nemesis before which his pride and self-esteem fell. His glance went from the righteous face of the old man to the pure and beautiful eyes of the boy, now frowning with disapproval, and he dropped into a chair with a groan. "I have been wrong!" he said, and bowed his head, the last atom of his pride rent away from him. There beside the dead, great scorching tears of bitterness found their way to his eyes, washing away the scales of blind conceit, and bringing clearer vision. Mary Montgomery was vindicated in the eyes of the man who had wronged her. But the baby frowned and cried softly: "Hush, bad man! You go away! You wake my pitty muvver! She’s ’s’eep!" The strong man shrank from the child’s words as from a blow, and looked up with almost a pleading on his usually cold face. But the old man watched him sternly. "Yes, it is enough. You may go. There is nothing more to be said. Now you understand. This is why I sent for you. It was her right." "But," said the stricken man, and looked toward the sleeping one in the coffin, "may I not wait until——" "You have no right," the old man answered sternly, and the young man turned away with a strange wild feeling tearing his throat like a sob. "No, I have no right." Then with a sudden movement he turned toward the child as if he would claim something there, but the baby hid his face and clung to his grandfather’s neck.