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!" The tears that were shed; the smiles that beamed from glad faces; the tender words that were spoken, and repeated again and again; why need we tell of all these?
Or why relate how happy the old man was when the dove that had flown from her nest came back with her mate by her side The dark year had passed, and there was sunshine again in his dwelling, brighter sunshine than before.

Pierre never painted so good a picture again as the one that took the prize--that was his masterpiece.
The Young Baron Holbein has an immense picture gallery, and is a munificent patron of the arts.

There is one composition on his walls he prizes above all the rest.

The wealth of India could not purchase it.