Caius looked on amazed.
At length, about the middle of the book, she came to a portrait at which she stopped, and with a look of cunning took out another which was hidden under it, and thrust it at Caius.
"It's for you," she said; "it's mine, and I'm going to die, and it's you I'll give it to." She looked and spoke as if the proffered gift was a thing more precious than the rarest gem.
Caius took it, and saw that it was a picture of a baby girl, about three years old.

He had not the slightest doubt who the child was; he stood by the window and examined it long and eagerly.

The sun, unaided by the deceptive shading of the more skilled photographer, had imprinted the little face clearly.

Caius saw the curls, and the big sad eyes with their long lashes, and all the baby features and limbs, his memory aiding to make the portrait perfect.

His eager look was for the purpose of discovering whether or not his imagination had played him false; but it was true what he had thought--the little one was like Josephine.
"I shall be glad to have it," he said--"very glad." "I had it taken at Montrose," said the poor mother; and, strange to say, she said it in a commonplace way, just as any woman might speak of procuring her child's likeness.