"Here!--this my grandsire's abode!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together, and glancing upward, as if to express her gratitude to Heaven for this welcome intelligence. "But how can that old man, whom I left so poor, have become the owner of this lordly palace? Speak, signor!--all you have told me seems to involve some strange mystery," she added with breathless rapidity. "Those wanderings of which you ere now spoke--wanderings over the world, performed by a man bent down by age; and then this noble dwelling--the appearances of wealth which present themselves around--the splendor--the magnificence----" "All--all are the old man's," answered the stranger, "and may some day become thine!" "Holy Virgin!" exclaimed Agnes, sinking upon the ottoman from which she had ere now risen, "I thank thee that thou hast bestowed these blessings on my relative in his old age. And yet," she added, again overwhelmed by doubts, "it is scarcely possible--no, it is too romantic to be true! Signor, thou art of a surety mistaken in him whom thou supposes to be my grandsire?" "Give me thine hand, Agnes--and I will convince thee," said the stranger. The young lady complied mechanically; and her unknown friend led her toward the portrait of the old man of ninety. Agnes recognized the countenance at a single glance, and would have fallen upon the floor had not her companion supported her in his arms. Tears again came to her relief; but hastily wiping them away, she extended her arms passionately toward the portrait, exclaiming, "Oh! now I comprehend you, signor! my grandsire lives in this dwelling indeed--beneath this roof; but lives only in that picture! Alas! alas! It was thus, no doubt, that the poor old man seemed when he was abandoned by me--the lost, the guilty Agnes! It was thus that he sat in his lonely dwelling--crushed and overwhelmed by the black ingratitude of his granddaughter! Oh! that I had never seen this portrait--this perpetuation of so much loneliness and so much grief! Ah! too faithful delineation of that sad scene which was wrought by me--vainly penitent that I am!" And covering her face with her hands she threw herself on her knees before the portrait, and gave way to all the bitterness and all the wildness of her grief. The stranger interrupted her not for some minutes: he allowed the flood of that anguish to have its full vent: but when it was partially subsiding he approached the kneeling penitent, raised her gently, and said, "Despair not! your grandsire lives." "He lives!" she repeated, her countenance once more expressing radiant hope, as the sudden gleam of sunshine bursts forth amidst the last drops of the April shower. But, almost at the same instant that she uttered those words, her eyes caught sight of the inscription at the foot of the picture; and, bounding forward she read it aloud.