and excited others far more interesting. One day that she was
arranging some papers in the small drawers of a cabinet that stood in
her apartment, she found a picture which fixed all her attention. It
was a miniature of a lady, whose countenance was touched with sorrow,
and expressed an air of dignified resignation. The mournful sweetness
of her eyes, raised towards Heaven with a look of supplication, and
the melancholy languor that shaded her features, so deeply affected
Julia, that her eyes were filled with involuntary tears. She sighed
and wept, still gazing on the picture, which seemed to engage her by a
kind of fascination. She almost fancied that the portrait breathed,
and that the eyes were fixed on hers with a look of penetrating
softness. Full of the emotions which the miniature had excited, she
presented it to madame, whose mingled sorrow and surprise increased
her curiosity. But what were the various sensations which pressed upon
her heart, on learning that she had wept over the resemblance of her
mother! Deprived of a mother's tenderness before she was sensible of
its value, it was now only that she mourned the event which
lamentation could not recall. Emilia, with an emotion as exquisite,
mingled her tears with those of her sister. With eager impatience they
pressed madame to disclose the cause of that sorrow which so
emphatically marked the features of their mother.

'Alas! my dear children,' said madame, deeply sighing, 'you engage me
in a task too severe, not only for your peace, but for mine; since in
giving you the information you require, I must retrace scenes of my
own life, which I wish for ever obliterated. It would, however, be
both cruel and unjust to withhold an explanation so nearly interesting
to you, and I will sacrifice my own ease to your wishes.

'Louisa de Bernini, your mother, was, as you well know, the only