“One would really think the poor fool was in love with the girl and meant to marry her! But, still, that is not very likely,” said Mrs. Bruce to herself with a shrug of her handsome shoulders. She did not, however, proffer the services of the only remaining lady of the household—Miss Belinda Warde; for she could not tell what other matrimonial whim might enter into the old man’s mind or be put into it by the constant presence of the handsome brunette. “I am sure, uncle, if you will permit me, I could find a much more suitable companion than this young girl,” rather sulkily persisted Mrs. Bruce. “Thanks, very much, my dear; but _I_ think the companion that _suits_ me best is the most _suitable_. I say I will have Miss Palmer. Let the question rest. Come here, my child.” (This was to Em.) The young girl laid down her work and came to the side of the old man, who took her hand and looked benignly in her face. Em. smiled, though her tears were ready to start. “Where did you get my Lonny’s smiling eyes, my dear? You are like a boy I lost long years ago, Miss Palmer—a brave boy, and a handsome one, or you could not be like him. You are very like him, my dear—with one of those accidental likenesses that are sometimes found to exist between those of no kin. It is not in your complexion or features, for you are fair and fragile, while my poor lost Lonny was dark and strong—but it is so in your smile—so in your whole expression of countenance, that I could almost fancy my Lonny’s purified soul looked from out of your blue eyes. It is very strange; but I cannot endure the sight of his portrait, though I love to see his likeness in you. I think I partly understand the reason, however,” continued the veteran, dropping his head in meditation, while his white beard flowed to his waist. “Yes, I think I see it, ‘as in a glass, darkly’—that portrait was the perfect image of his material body, as I used to see it—the material body which has perished; and which, because it has perished, I cannot bear to see in its ‘counterfeit.’ But that which looks at me from your fair face is the likeness of my son’s living soul; therefore I love to contemplate it.” “How the old dotard drivels!” thought Mrs. Bruce. “He’ll soon be a subject for the lunatic asylum.” “But that is not the point now, my dear,” continued the old man, still holding the hand of Em. “The question at issue is whether, when you have completed your term of service with my sister-in-law, you will enter mine, as my reader and writer?” Em. paused for a moment and then, raising her blue eyes full of the reverential, filial tenderness she felt for the childless old man, answered earnestly: “Indeed, I should be so very happy to do so, if only Mrs. Bruce and my mother will consent.”