"

"Mine it is certainly; in that I cannot be mistaken!"

"It would be odd indeed, if one of my grandmothers, for both are
there, should prove to be your mother.--Powis, will you have the
goodness to let me see the picture you mean."

Paul brought the miniature and a light, placing both before the eyes
of his friend.

"That!" exclaimed John Effingham, his voice sounding harsh and
unnatural to the listener,--"that picture like _your_ mother!"

"It is her miniature--_the_ miniature that was transmitted to
me, from those who had charge of my childhood. I cannot be mistaken
as to the countenance, or the dress."

"And your father's name was Assheton?"

"Certainly--John Assheton, of the Asshetons of Pennsylvania."

John Effingham groaned aloud; when Paul stepped back equally shocked
and surprised, he saw that the face of his friend was almost livid,
and that the hand which held the picture shook like the aspen.

"Are you unwell, dear Mr. Effingham?"

"No--no--'tis impossible! This lady never had a child. Powis, you
have been deceived by some fancied, or some real resemblance. This
picture is mine, and has not been out of my possession these five and
twenty years."

"Pardon me, sir, it is the picture of my mother, and no other; the
very picture lost in the Montauk."

The gaze that John Effingham cast upon the young man was ghastly; and
Paul was about to ring the bell, but a gesture of denial prevented
him.

"See," said John Effingham, hoarsely, as he touched a spring in the
setting, and exposed to view the initials of two names interwoven
with hair--"is this, too, yours?"

Paul looked surprised and disappointed.

"That certainly settles the question; my miniature had no such
addition; and yet I believe that sweet and pensive countenance to be
the face of my own beloved mother, and of no one else."

John Effingham struggled to appear calm; and, replacing the pictures,
he took the key from the dressing case, and, opening the bureau, he
took out the secretary. This he signed for Powis, who had the key, to
open; throwing himself into a chair, though every thing was done
mechanically, as if his mind and body had little or no connection
with each other.

"Some accidental resemblance has deceived you as to the miniature,"
he said, while Paul was looking for the proper number among the
letters of Mr. Monday. "No--no--that _cannot_ be the picture of
your mother. She left no child. Assheton did you say, was the na