distinguish only two bright, anxious eyes. She looked at me
like a prisoner awaiting a verdict. I began by telling her of the death
of Lampron's mother. Her only answer was an attentive nod. She guessed
something else was coming and stood on guard, so to speak. I went on and
told her that the portrait of her daughter was on its way to her. Then
she forgot everything--her age, her rank, and the mournful reserve which
had hitherto hedged her about. Her motherly heart alone spoke within her;
a ray of light had come to brighten the incurable gloom which was killing
her; she rushed toward me and fell into my arms, and I felt against my
heart her poor aged body shaking with sobs. She thanked me in a flood of
words which I did not catch. Then she drew back and gazed at me, seeking
to read in my eyes some emotion responsive to her own, and her eyes, red
and swollen and feverishly bright, questioned me more clearly than her
words.

"How good are you, sir! and how generous is he! What life does he lead?
Has he ever lived down the sorrow which blasted his youth here? Men
forget more easily, happily for them. I had given up all hope of
obtaining the portrait. Every year I sent him flowers which meant,
'Restore to us all that is left of our dead Rafaella.' Perhaps it was
unkind. I did reproach myself at times for it. But I was her mother, you
know; the mother of that peerless girl! And the portrait is so good, so
like! He has never altered it? tell me; never retouched it? Time has not
marred the lifelike coloring? I shall now have the mournful consolation I
have so long desired; I shall always have before me the counterpart of my
lost darling, and can gaze upon that face which none could depict save he
who loved her; for, dreadful though it be to think of, the image of the
best beloved will change and fade away even in a mother's heart, and at
times I doubt whether my old memory is still faithful, and recalls all
her grace and beauty as clearly as it used to do when the wound was fresh
in my heart and my eyes were still filled with the loveliness of her. Oh,
Monsieur, Monsieur! to think that I shall see that face once more!"

She left me as quickly as she had come, and went to open a door on the
left, into an adjoining room, whose red hangings threw a ruddy glow upon
the polished floor.

"Cristoforo!" she cried, "Cristoforo! come and see a French gentleman who
brings us great news. The portrait of our Rafaella, Cristoforo, the
po