“Grandfather, your blessing on the child of your only son.”

“Grandfather!—­Son!—­and his child!” repeated Don Francesco.  “I had a son, to my shame and contrition be it now confessed, but he has long been dead, I never knew that he left a child!”

“This is his daughter, Signore,” replied Carlo Giuntotardi; “her mother was my sister.  You thought us then too humble to be received into so illustrious a connection, and we have never wished to bring ourselves before your eyes until we thought our presence might be welcome.”

“And thou comest now, good man, to claim affinity with a condemned criminal!”

“Not so, grandfather,” answered a meek voice at his feet, “it is your son’s daughter that craves a blessing from her dying parent.  The boon shall be well requited in prayers for your soul!”

“Holy father!  I deserve not this!  Here has this tender plant lived, neglected in the shade, until it raises its timid head to offer its fragrance in the hour of death!  I deserve not this!”

“Son, if heaven offered no mercies until they are merited, hopeless, truly, would be the lot of man.  But we must not admit illusions at such a moment.  Thou art not a husband, Don Francesco; hadst thou ever a son?”

“That, among other sins, have I long since confessed; and as it has been deeply repented of, I trust it is forgiven.  I had a son—­a youth who bore my name, even; though he never dwelt in my palace, until a hasty and indiscreet marriage banished him from my presence.  I ever intended to pardon him, and to make provision for his wants; but death came too soon to both husband and wife to grant the time.  This much I did know, and it grieved me that it was so; but of his child, never before this instant have I heard!  ’Tis a sweet countenance, father; it seems the very abode of truth!”

“Why should we deceive you, grandfather?” rejoined Ghita, stretching her arms upward, as if yearning for an embrace; “most of all at a time like this!  We come not for honors, or riches, or your great name; we come simply to crave a blessing, and to let you know that a child of your own blood will be left on earth to say aves in behalf of your soul”!

“Holy priest, there can be no deception here!  This dear child even looks like her wronged grandmother! and my heart tells me she is mine.  I know not whether to consider this discovery a good or an evil at this late hour, coming as it does to a dying man!”

“Grandfather, your blessing.  Bless Ghita once, that I may hear the sound of a parent’s benediction.”

“Bless thee!—­bless thee, daughter!” exclaimed the admiral, bending over the weeping girl to do the act she solicited, and then raising her to his arms and embracing her tenderly; “this must be my child—­I feel that she is no other.”

“Eccellenza,” said Carlo, “she is the daughter of your son, Don Francesco, and of my sister, Ghita Giuntotardi, born in lawful wedlock.  I would not deceive any—­least of all a dying man.”