it aside again. My attention wandered; the author was powerless
to recall it. I got on my feet once more, and looked at Eustace, and
admired him and loved him in his tranquil sleep. I went back to the
window, and wearied of the beautiful morning. I sat down before the
glass and looked at myself. How haggard and worn I was already, through
awaking before my usual time! I rose again, not knowing what to do next.
The confinement to the four walls of the room began to be intolerable
to me. I opened the door that led into my husband's dressing-room, and
entered it, to try if the change would relieve me.

The first object that I noticed was his dressing-case, open on the
toilet-table.

I took out the bottles and pots and brushes and combs, the knives and
scissors in one compartment, the writing materials in another. I smelled
the perfumes and pomatums; I busily cleaned and dusted the bottles
with my handkerchief as I took them out. Little by little I completely
emptied the dressing-case. It was lined with blue velvet. In one corner
I noticed a tiny slip of loose blue silk. Taking it between my finger
and thumb, and drawing it upward, I discovered that there was a false
bottom to the case, forming a secret compartment for letters and papers.
In my strange condition--capricious, idle, inquisitive--it was an
amusement to me to take out the papers, just as I had taken out
everything else.

I found some receipted bills, which failed to interest me; some letters,
which it is needless to say I laid aside after only looking at the
addresses; and, under all, a photograph, face downward, with writing on
the back of it. I looked at the writing, and saw these words:

"To my dear son, Eustace."

His mother! the woman who had so obstinately and mercilessly opposed
herself to our marriage!

I eagerly turned the photograph, expecting to see a woman with a stern,
ill-tempered, forbidding countenance. To my surprise, the face showed
the remains of great beauty; the expression, though remarkably firm,
was yet winning, tender, and kind. The gray hair was arranged in rows
of little quaint old-fashioned curls on either side of the head, under a
plain lace cap. At one corner of the mouth there was a mark, apparently
a mole, which added to the characteristic peculiarity of the face.
I looked and looked, fixing the portrait thoroughly in my mind. This
woman, who had almost insulted me and my relatives, was, beyond all
doubt or dispute, so far