ture and
painting which she found few opportunities of gratifying in the
undecorated dwellings of the colonial gentry. It was said that the
early productions of her own pencil exhibited no inferior genius,
though perhaps the rude atmosphere of New England had cramped her hand
and dimmed the glowing colors of her fancy. But, observing her uncle's
steadfast gaze, which appeared to search through the mist of years to
discover the subject of the picture, her curiosity was excited.

"Is it known, my dear uncle," inquired she, "what this old picture
once represented? Possibly, could it be made visible, it might prove a
masterpiece of some great artist; else why has it so long held such a
conspicuous place?"

As her uncle, contrary to his usual custom--for he was as attentive to
all the humors and caprices of Alice as if she had been his own
best-beloved child--did not immediately reply, the young captain of
Castle William took that office upon himself.

"This dark old square of canvas, my fair cousin," said he, "has been
an heirloom in the province-house from time immemorial. As to the
painter, I can tell you nothing; but if half the stories told of it be
true, not one of the great Italian masters has ever produced so
marvellous a piece of work as that before you."

Captain Lincoln proceeded to relate some of the strange fables and
fantasies which, as it was impossible to refute them by ocular
demonstration, had grown to be articles of popular belief in reference
to this old picture. One of the wildest, and at the same time the
best-accredited, accounts stated it to be an original and authentic
portrait of the evil one, taken at a witch-meeting near Salem, and
that its strong and terrible resemblance had been confirmed by several
of the confessing wizards and witches at their trial in open court. It
was likewise affirmed that a familiar spirit or demon abode behind the
blackness of the picture, and had shown himself at seasons of public
calamity to more than one of the royal governors. Shirley, for
instance, had beheld this ominous apparition on the eve of General
Abercrombie's shameful and bloody defeat under the walls of
Ticonderoga. Many of the servants of the province-house had caught
glimpses of a visage frowning down upon them at morning or evening
twilight, or in the depths of night while raking up the fire that
glimmered on the hearth beneath, although, if any were, bold enough to
hold a torch before the picture,