As he came
under the last portrait of all, that of his own sweet young mother,
he suddenly looked up, and as his eyes rested on the calm, beautiful
countenance--which had always worn such a pathetic, mournful expression
that it used to make his heart ache to look at it in his boyish days--it
seemed to smile upon him. He was startled for an instant, and then,
thrilling with a strange, exquisite delight, and inspired with new hope
and courage, he said in a low, earnest tone, "I accept my dear dead
mother's smile as a good omen--perhaps all may not be lost even yet--I
will try to believe so."
After a moment of silent thought, he went on into his own chamber, and
put down the small lamp he carried, upon the little table, where still
lay the stray volume of Ronsard's poems that he had been reading--or
rather trying to read--on that tempestuous night when the old pedant
knocked at his door. And there was his bed, where Isabelle had
slept--the very pillow upon which her dear head had rested. He trembled
as he stood and gazed at it, and saw, as in a vision, the perfect form
lying there again in his place, and the sweetest face in all the world
turned towards him, with a tender smile parting the ripe red lips, a
rosy flush mantling in the delicate cheeks, and warm lovelight
shining in the deep blue eyes.
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