On reaching home he found both the parlor and drawing-room deserted, and upon inquiry learned that his mother was in her own room. Something, he could hardly tell what, prompted him to knock for admission, which being granted, he entered, finding her unusually pale, with the trace of tears still upon her cheek. This of itself was so common an occurrence, that he would hardly have observed it had not there been about her a look of unfeigned distress which he had seldom seen before. “What’s the matter, mother?” said he, advancing toward her; “What has happened to trouble you?” Without any reply, Mrs. Graham placed in his hand a richly-cased daguerreotype, and laying her head upon the table, sobbed aloud. A moment Durward stood transfixed to the spot, for on opening the case, the fair, beautiful face of ’Lena Rivers looked smilingly out upon him! “Where did you get this, mother?—how came you by it?” he asked, and she answered, that in looking through her husband’s private drawer, the key of which she had accidentally found in his vest pocket, she had come upon it, together with a curl of soft chestnut-brown hair which she threw across Durward’s finger, and from which he recoiled as from a viper’s touch. For several minutes not a word was spoken by either, and then Mrs. Graham, looking him in the face, said, “You recognize that countenance, of course?” “I do,” he replied, in a voice husky with emotion, for Durward was terribly moved. Twice had ’Lena asserted that never in her life had her daguerreotype been taken, and yet he held it in his hands; there was no mistaking it—the same broad, open brow—the same full, red lips—the same smile—and more than all, the same clustering ringlets, though arranged a little differently from what she usually wore them, the hair on the picture being combed smoothly over the forehead, while ’Lena’s was generally brushed up after the style of the prevailing fashion. Had Durward examined minutely, he might have found other points of difference, but he did not think of that. A look had convinced him that ’twas ’Lena—his ’Lena, he had fondly hoped to call her. But that was over now—she had deceived him—told him a deliberate falsehood—refused him her daguerreotype and given it to his father, whose secrecy concerning it indicated something wrong. His faith was shaken, and yet for the sake of what she had been to him, he would spare her good name. He could not bear to hear the world breathe aught against her, for possibly she might be innocent; but no, there was no mistaking the falsehood, and Durward groaned in bitterness as he handed the picture to his mother, bidding her return it where she found it. Mrs. Graham had never seen her son thus moved, and obeying him, she placed her hand upon his arm, asking, “why he was so affected—what she was to him?” “Everything, everything,” said he, laying his face upon the table. “’Lena Rivers was all the world to me. I loved her as I shall never love again.”