more lost in wonder the more I looked at the picture.

"Will you let me hang this picture in my room, papa?" I asked.

"Certainly, dear," said he, smiling, "I'm very glad you think it so
like. It must be prettier even than I thought it, if it is."

The young lady did not acknowledge this pretty speech, did not seem to
hear it. She was leaning back in her seat, her fine eyes under their
long lashes gazing on me in contemplation, and she smiled in a kind
of rapture.

"And now you can read quite plainly the name that is written in the
corner. It is not Marcia; it looks as if it was done in gold. The name
is Mircalla, Countess Karnstein, and this is a little coronet over and
underneath A.D. 1698. I am descended from the Karnsteins; that is,
mamma was."

"Ah!" said the lady, languidly, "so am I, I think, a very long descent,
very ancient. Are there any Karnsteins living now?"

"None who bear the name, I believe. The family were ruined, I believe,
in some civil wars, long ago, but the ruins of the castle are only about
three miles away."

"How interesting!" she said, languidly. "But see what beautiful
moonlight!" She glanced through the hall door, which stood a little
open. "Suppose you take a little ramble round the court, and look down
at the road and river."

"It is so like the night you came to us," I said.

She sighed; smiling.

She rose, and each with her arm about the other's waist, we walked out
upon the pavement.

In silence, slowly we walked down to the drawbridge, where the beautiful
landscape opened before us.

"And so you were thinking of the night I came here?" she almost
whispered.

"Are you glad I came?"

"Delighted, dear Carmilla," I answered.

"And you asked for the picture you think like me, to hang in your room,"
she murmured with a sigh, as she drew her arm closer about my waist, and
let her pretty head sink upon my shoulder. "How romantic you are,
Carmilla," I said. "Whenever you tell me your story, it will be made up
chiefly of some one great romance."

She kissed me silently.

"I am sure, Carmilla, you have been in love; that there is, at this
moment, an affair of the heart going on."

"I have been in love with no one, and never shall," she whispered,
"unless it should be with you."

How beautiful she looked in the moonlight!

Shy and strange was the look with which she quickly hid her face in my
neck and hair, with tumultuous sighs, that seemed almost to sob, and
pressed i