ter my return. Regina, I
wish to see you."

She followed him into the hall.

"In the box of clothing that arrived several days ago, there is a
white cashmere suit with blue silk trimmings?"

"Yes, sir."

"Be so good as to put it on. Then wrap up well, and when ready come
to the library. Do not keep me waiting. Bring your hair-brush and
comb."

Her mother had sent from Europe a tasteful wardrobe, which, when
unpacked, Mrs. Palma pronounced perfect; while Olga asserted that one
particular sash surpassed anything of the kind she had ever seen, and
was prevailed upon to accept and wear it.

With many conjectures concerning the import of Mr. Palma's
supervision of her toilette, Regina obeyed his instructions, and
fearful of trespassing on his patience, hurried down to the library.

With one arm behind him, and the hand of the other holding a
half-smoked cigar, he was walking meditatively up and down the
polished floor, that reflected his tall shadow.

"Where do you suppose you are going?"

"I have no idea."

"Why do you not inquire?"

"Because you will not tell me till you choose; and I know that
questions always annoy you."

"Come in. You linger at the door as if this were the den of a lion at
a menagerie, instead of a room to which you have been cordially
invited several times. I am not voracious, have had my luncheon. You
are quite ready?"

"Quite ready----"

She was slowly walking down the long room, and suddenly caught sight
of something that seemed to take away her breath.

The clock on the mantle had been removed to the desk, and in its
place was a large portrait neither square nor yet exactly kit-cat,
but in proportion more nearly resembled the latter. In imitation of
Da Vinci's celebrated picture in the Louvre, the background
represented a stretch of arid rocky landscape, unrelieved by foliage,
and against it rose in pose and general outline the counterpart of
"_La Joconde_."

The dress and drapery were of black velvet, utterly bare of ornament,
and out of the canvas looked a face of marvellous, yet mysteriously
mournful beauty. The countenance of a comparatively young woman,
whose radiant brown eyes had dwelt in some penetrale of woe, until
their light was softened, saddened; whose regular features were
statuesque in their solemn repose, and whose gold-tinted hair simply
parted on her white round brow, fell in glinting waves down upon her
polished shoulders. The mystical pale face of one who