One day he was sitting in his library endeavoring to banish the images that haunted him too continually, when two of his servants entered, bearing a large square box in their arms, marked for the Baron Holbein.  When the box was opened, it was found to contain a large picture, enveloped in a cloth.  This was removed and placed against the wall, and the servants retired with the box.  The baron, with unsteady hands, and a heart beating rapidly, commenced removing the cloth that still held the picture from view.  In a few moments a family group was before him.  There sat Nina, his lovely, loving and beloved child, as perfect, almost, as if the blood were glowing in her veins.  Her eyes were bent fondly upon a sleeping cherub that lay in her arms.  By her side sat Pierre, gazing upon her face in silent joy.  For only a single instant did the old man gaze upon this scene, before the tears were gushing over his cheeks and falling to the floor like rain.  This wild storm of feeling soon subsided, and, in the sweet calm that followed, the father gazed with unspeakable tenderness for a long time upon the face of his lovely child, and with a new and sweeter feeling upon the babe that lay, the impersonation of innocence, in her arms.  While in this state of mind, he saw, for the first time, written on the bottom of the picture—­“Not great, but happy.”

A week from the day on which the picture was received, the Baron Holbein entered Florence.  On inquiring for Pierre Delebarre, he found that every one knew the young artist.

“Come,” said one, “let me go with you to the exhibition, and show you his picture that has taken the prize.  It is a noble production.  All Florence is alive with its praise.”

The baron went to the exhibition.  The first picture that met his eyes on entering the door was a counterpart of the one he had received, but larger, and, in the admirable lights in which it was arranged, looked even more like life.

“Isn’t it a grand production?” said the baron’s conductor.

“My sweet, sweet child!” murmured the old man, in a low thrilling voice.  Then turning, he said, abruptly—­

“Show me where I can find this Pierre Delebarre.”

“With pleasure.  His house is near at hand,” said his companion.

A few minutes walk brought them to the artist’s dwelling.

“That is an humble roof,” said the man, pointing to where Pierre lived, “but it contains a noble man.”  He turned away, and the baron entered alone.  He did not pause to summon any one, but walked in through the open door.  All was silent.  Through a neat vestibule, in which were rare flowers, and pictures upon the wall, he passed into a small apartment, and through that to the door of an inner chamber It was half open.  He looked in.  Was it another picture?  No, it was in very truth his child; and her babe lay in her arms, as he had just seen it, and Pierre sat before her looking tenderly in her face.  He could restrain himself no longer.  Opening the door, he stepped hurriedly forward, and, throwing his arms around the group, said in broken voice—­“God bless you, my children!”