elf, but it is
emphatically so."

"She must be too much accustomed to compliments to mind yours, my dear,"
said Mrs. Brahan. "I think Mrs. Linwood has the advantage of the
picture, for she has the bloom and light of life. No painting can supply
these."

"There is something in the perfect repose of a picture," said I,
withdrawing my eyes from my mother's seraphic countenance; "something in
its serene, unchanging beauty, that is a type of immortality, of the
divine rest of the soul. Life is restless, and grows tremulous as we
gaze."

"O that that picture were mine!" I unconsciously uttered, as I turned to
take a last look on leaving the apartment.

"I do not know that it is mine to give," said Mr. Brahan, "as I found it
here after purchasing the house. The one below was presented me by St.
James himself. If, however, you will allow me to send it to Mr. Linwood,
I really think he has the best right to it, on account of its remarkable
resemblance to yourself."

"Oh no, indeed," I exclaimed; "I did not mean, did not think of such a
thing. It was a childish way of expressing my admiration of the
painting. If you will give me the privilege of sometimes calling to look
at it, I shall be greatly indebted."

I hurried down stairs, fearful of committing myself in some way, so as
to betray the secret of my birth.

"I wish you would come and see us often, Mrs. Linwood," said Mrs.
Brahan, as I bade her adieu. "We are not very fashionable; but if I read
your character aright, you will not dislike us on that account. A young
person, who is almost a stranger in a great city like this, sometimes
feels the want of an older friend. Let me be that friend."

"Thank you, dear madam," I answered, returning the cordial pressure of
her hand; "you do not know how deeply I appreciate your proffered
friendship, or how happy I shall be to cultivate it."

With many kind and polite expressions, they both accompanied me to the
door, and I left them with the conviction that wedded happiness might be
perfect after the experience of seventeen years.

When alone in the carriage, I tried to compose my agitated and excited
mind. So much had been crowded into the space of a few hours, that it
seemed as if days must have passed since I left home. I tried to
reconcile what I had _heard_ with what I had _seen_ of my father; but I
could not identify the magnificent artist, the man of genius and of
feeling, with the degenerate being from whom I had re