Scarcely had he finished speaking when the clergyman was announced. His appearance fully justified the eulogy which had just been pronounced upon him. Of bulky form, and rubicund face, he shuffled with unsteady gait into the room, and with attempted gayety, but in a husky and scarcely audible voice, replied to the salutation of his patron. “You may find my daughter a little eccentric in her conduct,” said Colonel Gansevoort, after being introduced to the priest. “She is young and romantic. It will not be necessary that you should take any particular notice of these things.” “Yes, sir—no, sir—of course, sir—certainly not, sir,” mumbled the chaplain rapidly, as with unsteady hand, in compliance with an invitation from Sir Philip, he helped himself at the sideboard, to an antidote against the cold. The maid now made her appearance, to announce that her mistress was ready; and the little party immediately proceeded into the adjoining room, where, half sitting, half reclining upon the sofa, white as the dress she wore, and to all appearance lifeless, sat the bride elect. She was in reality in a swoon. No questions were asked—no explanations made. Sir Philip stood beside her, and the ceremony went rapidly forward. The priest knew the service by rote; he held his book merely for form. Not a word of its contents could he have seen, if it had been necessary. “Does she answer?” he inquired, putting his hand to his ear, when the decisive interrogatory was put. Bender bowed, and the ceremony went on. “The ring?” inquired the chaplain. Sir Philip produced the golden circlet, and after it had passed through the hands of the priest, proceeded with gentlest motion to place it upon her finger. The touch was like electricity to her frame. She sprang to her feet, and catching the robe of the terrified chaplain, sank upon her knees before him. “No, no, no!” she shrieked, “it must not, shall not be.” Bender hastily disengaged her hold, and leading Dr. Felton out of the room, informed him that Miss Gansevoort was laboring under a fit, to which she was subject, but which would soon pass off. “Certainly, sir—yes, sir—of course, sir—poor thing!” “Father, dear father,” exclaimed Ellen, turning next to him, and gasping for breath as she spoke, “you do not, _cannot_ mean it. I implore, I beseech you by the memory of my dear, sainted mother, to spare me. See,” she said, pointing suddenly to a portrait of her deceased parent, “she _looks_ at you! She _speaks_ to you! Her _eyes_, her _lips_ are moving! God of heaven!” she exclaimed, “_she is coming down from the canvas!_” Wrought up by excitement to a point of positive delirium, Ellen once more fell senseless to the floor. Her father, shocked and terrified, hastily threw open a blind, and gazed for a moment in awe at the picture. It hung motionless against the wall.