turned over the books impatiently, when lo! buried amongst them, what
met my eye? Archly, yet reproachfully,--the face of Fanny herself! Her
miniature was there. It had been, I knew, taken a few days before by a
young artist whom Trevanion patronized. I suppose he had carried it
into his study to examine it, and so left it there carelessly. The
painter had seized her peculiar expression, her ineffable smile,--so
charming, so malicious; even her favorite posture,--the small head
turned over the rounded Hebe-like shoulder; the eye glancing up from
under the hair. I know not what change in my madness came over me; but
I sank on my knees, and, kissing the miniature again and again, burst
into tears. Such tears! I did not hear the door open, I did not see
the shadow steal ever the floor; a light hand rested on my shoulder,
trembling as it rested--I started. Fanny herself was bending over me!

"What is the matter?" she asked tenderly. "What has happened? Your
uncle--your family--all well? Why are you weeping?"

I could not answer; but I kept my hands clasped over the miniature, that
she might not see what they contained.

"Will you not answer? Am I not your friend,--almost your sister? Come,
shall I call mamma?"

"Yes--yes; go--go."

"No, I will not go yet. What have you there? What are you hiding?"

And innocently, and sister-like, those hands took mine; and so--and so--
the picture became visible! There was a dead silence. I looked up
through my tears. Fanny had recoiled some steps, and her cheek was very