ions, and sat down once more to my
work. But between me and the fading light came the face of the
miniature, and would not be banished. Wherever I turned it looked out at
me from the shadows. I am not naturally fanciful, and the work I was
engaged upon--the writing of a farcical comedy--was not of the kind to
excite the dreamy side of a man's nature. I grew angry with myself, and
made a further effort to fix my mind upon the paper in front of me. But
my thoughts refused to return from their wanderings. Once, glancing back
over my shoulder, I could have sworn I saw the original of the picture
sitting in the big chintz-covered chair in the far corner. It was
dressed in a faded lilac frock, trimmed with some old lace, and I could
not help noticing the beauty of the folded hands, though in the portrait
only the head and shoulders had been drawn.

Next morning I had forgotten the incident, but with the lighting of the
lamp the memory of it awoke within me, and my interest grew so strong
that again I took the miniature from its hiding-place and looked at it.

And then the knowledge suddenly came to me that I knew the face. Where
had I seen her, and when? I had met her and spoken to her. The picture
smiled at me, as if rallying me on my forgetfulness. I put it back upon
its shelf, and sat racking my brains trying to recollect. We had met
somewhere--in the country--a long time ago, and had talked of
common-place things. To the vision of her clung the scent of roses and
the murmuring voices of haymakers. Why had I never seen her again? Why
had she passed so completely out of my mind?

My landlady entered to lay my supper, and I questioned her assuming a
careless tone. Reason with or laugh at myself as I would, this shadowy
memory was becoming a romance to me. It was as though I were talking of
some loved, dead friend, even to speak of whom to commonplace people was
a sacrilege. I did not want the woman to question me in return.

"Oh, yes," answered my landlady. Ladies had often lodged with her.
Sometimes people stayed the whole summer, wandering about the woods and
fells, but to her thinking the great hills were lonesome. Some of her
lodgers had been young ladies, but she could not remember any of them
having impressed her with their beauty. But then it was said women were
never a judge of other women. They had come and gone. Few had ever
returned, and fresh faces drove out the old.

"You have been let