Yes! there could be no earthly doubt that the strange words uttered by the boy, were so many broken and yet brilliant memories shining from the dim past: that this was his son--the original of the portrait. The now harsh and sombre lawyer, when a young and happy man, had married a French lady, and lived on the border; and his little son had, after the French fashion, received, for middle name, his mother's name, Anne--and this had become his pet designation. His likeness had been painted by a wandering artist, and soon after, a band of Delawares had attacked the homestead and carried him away to the wilderness, and there had remained little doubt, in his father's mind, that the child had been treated as the Indians were accustomed to treat such captives--mercilessly slain. The picture of him was the only treasure left to the poor broken heart, when heaven had taken his wife from him, soon afterwards--and in the gloom and misanthropy these tortures inflicted upon him, this alone had been his light and solace. Retaining for the boy his old pet name of Anne, he had cried in presence of the picture, and been hardened in spite of all, against Providence. In the blind convulsions of his passionate regret, he had even uttered blasphemy, and scouted anything like trust in God; and here now was that merciful God leading his child back to him, and pardoning all his sin of unbelief, and enmity, and hatred; and saying to him, in words of marvellous sweetness and goodness, "Poor soured spirit, henceforth worship and trust in me!" Yes! his son Arthur, so long wept and mourned, had come to him again--was there before him, kneeling at his feet! And with his arms around the boy, the rugged man bent down and wept, and uttered in his heart a prayer for pardon. And we may be sure that the man's joy was not unshared by those around--those kind, friendly eyes, which looked upon the father and son, and rejoiced in their happiness. The very sunshine grew more bright, it seemed; and when the picture was brought forth, and set in his light, he shone full on it, and seemed to laugh and bless the group with his kind light--even the little laughing child. CHAPTER LXIX. CONCLUSION. Our chronicle is ended, and we cannot detain the reader longer, listening to those honest kindly voices, which have, perhaps, spoken quite as much as he is willing to give ear to. Let us hope, that in consideration of their kindness and simplicity, he may pardon what appeared frivolous--seeing that humanity beat under all, and kindness--like the gentle word of the poet--is always gain.