"I must see her!" she said, whisperingly--"I shall not offend her memory. I have never done anything very wrong in my life,--if I had, I should have reason to be afraid--or ashamed,--and then of course wouldn't dare to look at her. I have often been silly and frivolous and thoughtless,--but never spiteful or malicious, or really wicked. I could meet my father if he were here, just as frankly as if I were still a little girl,--and I think he would wish me to see his Dearest now! His Dearest! He always called her that!" With the breath coming and going quickly through her parted lips, she stepped slowly and timidly up to that corner in the wall behind the picture, where the fastenings of the spring pulley were concealed, and fitted the key into the padlock which guarded it. The light of the setting sun threw a flame of glory aslant through the windows, and filled the gallery with a warm rush of living colour and radiance; and as she removed the padlock, and came to the front of the picture to pull the curtain-cord, she stood, unconsciously to herself, in a pure halo of gold, which intensified the brown and amber shades of her hair and the creamy folds of her gown, so that she resembled 'an angel newly drest, save wings, for heaven,' such as one may see delineated on the illuminated page of some antique missal. Her hand trembled, as at the first touch on the pulley the curtain began to move,--inch by inch it ascended, showing pale glimmerings of white and rose,--still higher it moved, giving to the light a woman's beautiful hand, so delicately painted as to seem almost living. The hand held a letter, and plainly on the half unfolded scroll could be read the words: "Thine till death, ROBERT VANCOURT."