From the inside pocket of his coat he drew out a little beautifully-
painted miniature. The frame had long since been worn and frayed.
O'Connell looked at the face and his eyes shone:

"The man that painted it couldn't put the soul of her into it. That
he couldn't. Not the soul of her."

"Am I like her, at all, father?" asked Peg wistfully.

"Sometimes ye are, dear: very like."

After a little pause Peg said:

"Ye loved her very much, father, didn't ye?"

He nodded. "I loved her with all the heart of me and all the
strength of me."

Peg sat quiet for some minutes: then she asked him a question very
quietly and hung in suspense on his answer:

"Do ye love me as much as ye loved her, father?"

"It's different, Peg--quite, quite different."

"Why is it?" She waited He did not answer.

"Sure, love is love whether ye feel it for a woman or a child," she
persisted.