His beautiful spiritual face was startlingly pale and his hands trembled nervously, but Aunt Delia never doubted but that these were the signs of a natural excitement caused by the anticipation of the approaching concert. His appearance and manners showed refinement and cultivation so far beyond anything that Marion had expected to see that she was really greatly surprised and, in spite of her previous sentiments, interested in him. But not even to her sister would she admit that her views were in any way changed, and when going to the concert was discussed, she would not acknowledge any desire to hear Philip play, but appeared to give her consent to going with Lillie and Miss Acton simply to please the others.
After dinner Aunt Delia whispered to Philip that she would like to have him stop in her room for a moment on his way upstairs. He followed her almost immediately, and his ruffled feelings were soothed at once under the influence of her gentle presence.
“My dear boy,” she said, when they had entered the pleasant chamber together and she had closed the door, “I have something for you which I am sure will please you--and which I hope you will enjoy carrying about with you as much as I have enjoyed having it prepared for you.” She unlocked a drawer and took from it a small square box which she laid in Philip’s hand; the boy removed the outer covering with fingers which trembled with pleasure and excitement, and drew forth from its wrappings of tissue-paper a small oval case of dark leather. Touching a spring at the side, the case flew open, and Philip gave a little gasp of wonder and delight as he gazed upon two portraits, similar in size and execution, of his father and mother. They were exquisitely painted on ivory, and Philip noticed at once that the picture of his father was exactly similar to the one which his mother had worn about her neck.
“But my mother!” he exclaimed; “it is perfect--her eyes, her hair, her mouth; the artist must have seen her, surely.”
“He did,” said Aunt Delia gently, “for the artist was your father, Philip. You remember that in the old desk which stood in your mother’s room, and which we opened after her death, there were a number of papers and packages, the greater part of no particular value. You will also remember that you asked me to take charge of these and look them over at my leisure. Well, it was not until a month ago that I had the heart to do so, and from the first package which I untied there fell out your mother’s picture, which your father must have painted just before or perhaps soon after their marriage. It occurred to me all at once that the two portraits (that of your father I had already planned to give you on your return to England) could be framed together, for in death they are not divided.”