end. Valentine saw before her a magnificent painting--tall
forest trees, whose thick branches were interwoven, every green
leaf distinct and clear; she saw the mellow light that fell
through them, the milk-white palfrey and the jeweled harness, the
handsome knight who rode near; and then she saw her own face,
bright, smiling, glowing with beauty, bright in innocence, sweet
in purity. Valentine stared in astonishment, and her companion
smiled.

"There can be no doubt about the resemblance," said the countess.
"The artist has made you Queen Guinevere, Miss Charteris."

"Yes," said Valentine, wonderingly; "it is my own face. How came
it there? Who is the artist?"

"His name is Ronald Thorne," replied the countess. "There is
quite a romance about him."

The countess saw Miss Charteris grow pale and silent.

"Have you ever seen him?" inquired the countess. "Do you know
him?"

"Yes," said Valentine, "my family and his have been on intimate
terms for years. I knew that he was in Italy with his wife."

"Ah," rejoined the countess, eagerly, "then perhaps you know all
about his marriage? Who was Mrs. Thorne? Why did he quarrel
with his father? Do tell us, Miss Charteris."