“But, dearest madam, I do not know _how_ to flatter! I speak only the very truth,” said Em. with a certain childish dignity. “Truth sometimes flatters. Do not praise me, little girl. I do not deserve it, and—I cannot bear it. I wish to be _forgiven_, not praised. To be _forgotten_, not remembered—except by the very few who love me. I have talked to _you_, young namesake, longer than I have talked with any one these fifteen years past. My heart seems strangely and tenderly drawn towards you, little girl. Perhaps it is because you are the child of one who was my most steadfast friend in a time of terrible trial. Perhaps, also, it is because you were named for me, and I held you in my arms and blessed you, when I myself had ‘most need of blessing.’ But all that would hardly explain the yearning of my soul towards you, my child! my child!” said the lady as she took the hand of the young girl and drew her to her bosom. “Oh! May I tell you something? May I tell you something?” muttered Em. in tones half smothered with emotion as she leaned on the bosom of the lady, held there in a close embrace. “Tell me anything you please, my child.” CHAPTER XIX THE GOOD FAIRY Better to hope, though the clouds hang low, And to keep the eyes still lifted, For the sweet blue sky will soon peep through, When the ominous clouds are drifted. There never was a night without a day, Nor an evening without a morning; And the darkest hour, the proverbs say, Is just before the dawning. BALDWIN’S MONTHLY. “Well, the first time I ever saw your portrait—that one hanging there in the bridal dress and veil—I loved it. Oh! I loved it so I could have sat all day and gazed upon it! And every time I have come back to the island it was not to see any of the beautiful objects, it was to spend all the time I had to spare in sitting before your portrait and gazing on it. And now I have _you_!” concluded the girl with a convulsive clasp of the lady’s form. “Yes, now you have me,” replied the latter, once more reseating Em. on the sofa and sitting down beside her. “Now you have me. Therefore I feel the less hesitation about disabusing your mind about that picture. It is not my portrait, though very like me. It is my mother’s portrait, taken in her bridal costume.” “What! that picture the image of you, dear madam, and yet not you! But it is beautiful! Beautiful, for all that,” exclaimed Em., gazing from the face of the lady to that of the picture. “My mother was a most beautiful woman,” murmured the lady. “And the portrait which hangs in the long drawing-room of the old Wilderness manor-house—the portrait of a lady in the costume of the time of Queen Elizabeth—whose face so much resembles yours and your mother’s?” said Em. interrogatively.