There was an aching void in bosom.

Night after night he would dream of his child, and awake in the morning and sigh that the dream was not reality.

But pride was strong--he would not countenance her disobedience.
More than a year had passed away, and not one word had come from his absent one, who grew dearer to his heart every day.

Once or twice he had seen the name of Pierre Delebarre in the journals, as a young artist residing Florence, who was destined, to become eminent.

The pleasure these announcements gave him was greater than he would confess, even to himself.
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.