In fact it was the counterfeit presentment of a young woman clothed in white. The picture was still unfinished. The attire, the accessories, the background were scarcely indicated; the head alone seemed almost complete. It was a fine, delicate head, softly illumined by a faint smile as by a ray of autumnal sunshine, the eyes of a dull blue, hesitant in glance as though weary of the light,--infinite weariness in the inclination of the neck and the droop of the shoulders. An indefinable charm of sorrow and resignation overspread the entire countenance. The very uncertainty of the sketch lent to it an ethereal, almost supernatural character, enveloping it in that vague, ideal film which veils the figures in a dream. "Who is this lady?" inquired Esther. "She died twenty years ago, and I never saw her in life. I only know that she is called Lady Mowbray." "Lady Mowbray! The mother of young Lord Mowbray whom you resemble so closely?" "The same." "But why has the portrait remained unfinished?" "The death of the original interrupted the sittings. She knew that she was doomed and wished to bequeath her portrait to her son; but apparently no one cared for her or respected her last wish, since the sketch has never been claimed by the family. It is said that she was most unhappy, and wept her life away. I am as attached to this portrait as to a living person. It watches me and smiles upon me; I speak to it and it responds. How many times have I kissed those poor hands which are now folded in death! I have wished that my mother might resemble her, and in my folly I have more than once addressed her by that holy name. Athwart the space which separates us my heart yearns towards her. What would I not give to have known and consoled her! What do you think of such foolishness, Miss Woodville?" "I understand you; I assure you that I understand you, and it seems to me that from to-day I shall no longer be the same, that I shall be less frivolous, less thoughtless, that I shall regard life with other eyes." And turning suddenly she came in contact with an object in the shadow, which upon being disturbed gave forth a queer sound, like to the click of _castagnettes_. "What is that?" she exclaimed. "That is nothing, only a skeleton used in anatomical studies." He drew into the light the singular companion, whose arms and legs projected absurdly every which way. One would have said that it was a drunken sailor attempting a hornpipe. As if to increase its height a lace cap with red ribbons, carelessly placed upon its cranium, had slipped to one side, suggesting the idea of ghostly joviality. Esther burst into a laugh which she quickly repressed. "Poor thing!" she said. "Like us, he has possessed a heart and a brain. Perhaps he has loved, perhaps they have said he was handsome. Pardon me that I laughed, poor skeleton!" The words of her well-beloved poet recurred to her memory.