a terribly severe old man, they say--he died long years before I was
born--but he must have loved my grandmother very much, for he could
not bear to hear her name, and he never came to the castle after her
death."

"It is strange," said Harold, musingly, "but I have surely seen that
face before."

He looked long at the beautiful, life-like picture before him. It
was marvellously like Weir in form and feature and coloring. But the
expression was sad, the eyes were wistful, and the whole face was
that, not of a woman who had lived, but of a woman who knew that out
of her life had passed the power to live did she bow her knee to the
Social Decalogue. As Weir stood, with her bright, eager, girlish face
upheld to the woman out of whose face the girlish light had forever
gone, the resemblance and the contrast were painfully striking.

"I love her!" exclaimed Weir, "and whenever I come in here I always
kiss her hand." She went forward and pressed her lips lightly to the
canvas, while Dartmouth stood with his eyes fastened upon the face
whose gaze seemed to meet his own and--soften--and invite--

He stepped forward suddenly as Weir drew back. "She fascinates me,
also," he said, with a half laugh. "I, too, will kiss her hand."




III.