s only child so lengthy an explanation on a
subject of so much importance without giving one word or sign of
affection to that child, and that I was most earnestly anxious to know
the reason, if any, for so marked an omission; but, whilst I was
hesitating how to frame my remark in such a manner as to avoid the
giving of offence, my father rose from before his easel, and, unlocking
a cabinet which stood in the room, said:

"One word more. You will probably be asked by your companions all
manner of questions about your home and your parents. Now, with regard
to your mother, you know nothing about her beyond, possibly, the fact
that she died when you were born; and that is quite as much as I
consider it needful for you to know. But you may perhaps be glad to be
made acquainted with her personal appearance; you may, possibly, at some
future day--if you have not already experienced such a desire--be
anxious to possess the means of bringing her before you as something
more than a mere _name_. I will therefore give you this miniature,
which is a correct and striking likeness of what your mother was when I
painted it."

And, as he finished speaking, my father placed in my hand a small velvet
case, to which was attached a thin gold chain by which it might be
suspended from the neck.

I was about to open the case; but my father somewhat hastily prevented
the action by throwing the chain round my neck, thrusting the miniature
into the bosom of my dress, and dismissing me with the words:

"There! run away now and make your preparations. We shall set out for
your school to-morrow, immediately after breakfast."

I hastened away to my play-room, and, once fairly within the bounds of
my own domain, drew forth the miniature case and opened it. As the lid
flew back at the pressure of my finger upon the spring a thrill of half
joy, half terror, shot through me; for I instantly recognised in the
features of the portrait a vivid presentment of that sweet dream-face
whose visits to me during the silent and lonely night-watches had
flooded my infant soul with such an ecstasy of rapture and delight. The
portrait, which is before me as I write, was that of a young and
beautiful girl. The complexion was clearest, faintest, most transparent
olive; the face a perfect oval, crowned with luxuriant masses of wavy,
deep chestnut hair, the colour almost merging into black; indeed it
would have been difficult to decide that it was _not_ bla