Indifferent as to which part of the building received their first attention, the foremost party turned, as it were by a mere chance, into that appropriated to the exhibition of native talent. They moved slowly along, the parents still in advance, pausing as others were doing, now here, now there, as one painting or another drew their attention. Suddenly the lady grasped her husband’s arm, a low, half-stifled cry escaping her lips. Was it joy? Was it anguish? It seemed a mingling of both. “What is it, wife?” he asked in a startled tone, and throwing the other arm around her, for she seemed about to faint. “Look, look!” she said, pointing to Espy’s picture of the child, beneath which they were standing. “It is--it is my baby! my little Ethel! my lost darling!” she sobbed half inarticulately, gazing at it with streaming eyes. “Ha!” cried her husband, “is it possible! My darling, are you sure?” “Yes, yes, it is she! Could a mother’s eyes be deceived? Can a mother’s heart forget? And the woman--the one who took her from me! That is her face. I remember perfectly every lineament. Oh, Rolfe, Rolfe, it is my lost baby! And there,” pointing to the companion picture, “there she is, grown to womanhood! Is not this a clue?” “Yes, yes; the artist--we must find him.” Their tones had not been loud, yet, in connection with the lady’s evident agitation, had attracted some notice, and a younger pair had hurriedly pushed their way toward them, coming up so close in their rear as to catch the last two or three sentences. “I am the artist,” said Espy, “and this,” glancing at Ethel as the others turned quickly at the sound of his voice, “is the original of those two--” “Your name? your name?” gasped the lady, gazing eagerly, longingly, into the pale, excited face of the girl. “Is Ethel Farnese. My mother’s was the same; and she, a widow, poor, dying as she believed, gave me to that woman--Mrs. Kemper.” “I knew it! I knew it! My child! my long-lost child!” and instantly they were locked in each other’s arms, Ethel sobbing: “Mother, mother! my own darling mother!” CHAPTER XXXIX. THE MADAME’S QUEST IS ENDED. “I cannot speak; tears so obstruct my words And choke me with unutterable joy.”--OTWAY. “Were my whole life to come one heap of troubles, The pleasure of this moment would suffice, And sweeten all my griefs with its remembrance.”--LEE. Madame Le Conte had remained at home that day, had slept all the morning, and now, in the latter part of the afternoon, was occupying a lounging chair in her boudoir and amusing herself with a novel. “Hark! wasn’t that a carriage stopping at our door?” she said, looking up from her book and addressing her maid. “Yes, there’s a ring.” “Katty’ll go. It’s Miss Ethel come home early, I presume, Madame,” answered Mary, not troubling herself to rise from her chair.