several small snow-white birds, hopping and fluttering down towards her
outstretched hand; while she gazed up at them with flushed cheeks, and
lips parting with a bright, joyous smile.

Presently, while I stood admiring this most lovely work, the young man I
have mentioned as having raised Yoletta from the ground at the grave
came to my side and remarked, smiling: "You have noticed the
resemblance."

"Yes, indeed," I returned; "she is painted to the life."

"This is not Yoletta's portrait," he replied, "though it is very like
her;" and then, when I looked at him incredulously, he pointed to some
letters under the picture, saying: "Do you not see the name and date?"

Finding that I could not read the words, I hazarded the remark that it
was Yoletta's mother, perhaps.

"This portrait was painted four centuries ago," he said, with surprise
in his accent; and then he turned aside, thinking me, perhaps, a rather
dull and ignorant person.

I did not want him to go away with that impression, and remarked,
pointing to the statue I have spoken of: "I fancy I know very well who
that is--that is Europa."

"Europa? That is a name I never heard; I doubt that any one in the house
ever bore it." Then, with a half-puzzled smile, he added: "How could you
possibly know unless you were told? No, that is Mistrelde. It was
formerly the custom of the house for the Mother to ride on a white bull