t is not extraordinary that I should resemble my mother.
Only--I have heard very little of her--almost nothing."

"That is true." He got up and placed himself before the fire, which was
very low, as the night was not cold--had not been cold heretofore at
least; but it seemed to me now that a little chill came into the dim and
faded room. Perhaps it looked more dull from the suggestion of a
something brighter, warmer, that might have been. "Talking of mistakes,"
he said, "perhaps that was one: to sever you entirely from her side of
the house. But I did not care for the connection. You will understand how
it is that I speak of it now when I tell you--" He stopped here, however,
said nothing more for a minute or so, and then rang the bell. Morphew
came, as he always did, very deliberately, so that some time elapsed in
silence, during which my surprise grew. When the old man appeared at the
door--"Have you put the lights in the drawing-room, as I told you?" my
father said.

"Yes, sir; and opened the box, sir; and it's a--it's a speaking
likeness--"

This the old man got out in a great hurry, as if afraid that his master
would stop him. My father did so with a wave of his hand.

"That's enough. I asked no information. You can go now."

The door closed upon us, and there was again a pause. My subject had
floated away altogether like a mist, though I had been so concerned about
it. I tried to resume, but could not. Something seemed to arrest my very
breathing; and yet in this dull, respectable house of ours, where
everything breathed good character and integrity, it was certain that
there could be no shameful mystery to reveal. It was some time before my
father spoke, not from any purpose that I could see, but apparently
because his mind was busy with probably unaccustomed thoughts.

"You scarcely know the drawing-room, Phil," he said at last.

"Very little. I have never seen it used. I have a little awe of it, to
tell the truth."

"That should not be. There is no reason for that. But a man by himself,
as I have been for the greater part of my life, has no occasion for a
drawing-room. I always, as a matter of preference, sat among my books;
however, I ought to have thought of the impression on you."

"Oh, it is not important," I said; "the awe was childish. I have not
thought of it since I came home."

"It never was anything very splendid at the best," said he. He lifted the
lamp from the table with a sort of abstra