I took the book; it was bound in red morocco, and on the cover was written in gold letters the word "Pictures." Pictures, a book of pictures, just as if I were a little girl wanting amusement! Then I opened it and saw that it was only a catalogue of pictures. Here were the dining-room pictures. "Gerard Dow, Portrait of himself. Poussin, Nymphs bathing, &c., &c." Here was the gallery. "Wilder, Wilder," nothing but Wilders. "Sir Geoffry Wilder, justice of appeal, in his robes." Stay. Here was something round which a red pencil mark had been drawn, "Portrait of Gerald Wilder and Beatrice Sinclair, No. 112." Beatrice Sinclair--that was _I_. I felt trembling with excitement, all the strangeness of the last three days had got into a focus. This picture of which the name was drawn round with red was what Wilder had sent me down to see. I was going to see my own portrait, of that I felt certain. But stay, there was something more to be read. "Gerald Wilder slew Beatrice Sinclair in a fit of passion. Why, it was never discovered. They were engaged to be married. He destroyed himself with the poisoned wine which he had given to her, drinking it from the same cup." This was written in Wilder's scraggy hand-writing. "Ha!" thought I, "so Gerald Wilder slew me in some past life; well, I don't bear him any grudge, he must have been a horribly wicked man though, for all that. Now, I'll ring for the butler to show me this picture." I rang, and the old fellow came. "Get a lamp, please. I wish to look at the picture gallery." "The picture gallery, ma'am." "Yes." "It's very dark, ma'am, at this hour. Hadn't you better wait till morning?" "No, I wish to go now." "Very well, ma'am." He shuffled out, and returned in a minute or so with a lamp. Then I followed him. As he opened the oak door of the picture gallery the lamp light rushed in before us, and I saw two long walls covered with the stern faces of the dead and gone Wilders; dim and faint they all looked in the faint light, just like ghosts. We walked down the centre of the gallery. I was looking for my face amongst all these strangers, but I could not find it. I touched the old man on the arm, "Which is the picture of Beatrice Sinclair?" He made no reply, but the lamp in his hand shook with a noise like the chattering of teeth. Then he walked to a picture set in a black ebony frame. "This is it," he said, "see." I noticed that he did not say ma'am, but I did not notice it much, I was so engaged with the face of this Beatrice. At first I felt pleased, then disappointed. She was very pretty, but not in the _least_ like _me_. Then, as I looked, I could scarcely believe my eyes. A dimly-painted face began to grow out of the background--a man's face, with long flowing hair; his eyes were turned towards Beatrice, they seemed also turned towards me. It was myself. This man's portrait was _my_ portrait, the face larger and more masculine, but the same.