seemed alike
incapable of hope or of regret, who gazed upon past, present, future,
as proud, as passionless and calm as Destiny; and whose perfect hands
were folded in stern fateful rest.

As Regina looked up at it she stopped, then run to the hearth, and
stood with her eyes riveted to the canvas, her lips parted and
quivering.

Watching her, Mr. Palma came to her side, and asked:

"Whom can it be?"

Evidently she did not hear him. Her whole heart and soul appeared
centred in the picture; but as she gazed, her own eloquent face grew
whiter, she drew her breath quickly, and tears rolled over her
cheeks, as she lifted her arms toward the painting.

"Mother I my beautiful sad-eyed mother!"

Sobs shook her frame, and she pressed toward the mantelpiece till the
skirt of her dress swept dangerously close to the fire. Mr. Palma
drew her back, and said quietly:

"For an uncultivated young rustic, I must say your appreciation of
fine painting is rather surprising. Few city girls would have paid
such a tearful tribute of heartfelt admiration to my pretty 'Mona
Lisa.'"

Without removing her fascinated eyes she asked:

"When did it come?"

"I have had it several days. I presume that you know it is a copy of
Da Vinci's celebrated picture, upon which he worked four years, and
which now hangs in the gallery of the Louvre at Paris?"

She merely shook her head.

"In France it is called '_La Joconde_; but I prefer the softer 'Mona
Lisa' for my treasure."

"Is it not mine? She must have sent it to me?"

"She? Are you dreaming? Mona Lisa has been dead three hundred years!"

"Mr. Palma, it is my mother. No other face ever looked like that, no
other eyes except those in the _Mater Dolorosa_ resemble these
beautiful sad brown eyes, that rained their tears upon my head. Do
you think a child ever mistook another for her own mother? Can the
face I first learned to know and to love, the lovely--oh! how
lovely--face that bent over my cradle ever--ever be forgotten? If I
never saw her again in this world, could I fail to recognise her in
heaven? My own mother!"

"Obstinate, infatuated little ignoramus! Read--and be convinced."

He opened and held before her a volume of engravings of the pictures
and statues in the Louvre, and turning to the Leonardo Da Vinci's,
moved his fingers slowly beneath the title.

Her eyes fell upon "_La Joconde_," then wandered back to the portrait
over the fireplace; and through her tears broke a