Among these paintings, the one that I loved the best, that I always sought for, and that never frightened me, was the portrait of a youthful woman, dressed in a black robe. The sleeves were looped with agrafes, inlaid with pearls, leaving uncovered the loveliest arm in the world, and long, fair hair, entirely unadorned, flowed in large waves on her shoulders. With her large, blue eyes, her peculiarly regular features, and singularly gentle expression, her beauty would have been faultless, but for the frightful paleness which spread itself over her countenance. She was as white as the column of marble against which her brow was pictured as leaning; and I have frequently thought since, that there was, perhaps, something of coquetry in this posture. The melancholy face of the young lady, contrasted with the smiling visages of the dames who surrounded her, and this strange sadness, combined with the languid grace of her position, exercised over my mind a sort of inexplicable fascination. In my childish admiration, I asked myself if a being so beautiful had ever really existed. The impression produced by her haunted me every where; and I remembered it even in my dreams. One day, which had been appointed for a visit in the neighborhood, I contrived to escape, for the purpose of seeing again my cherished favorites, before leaving them for several hours. I had intended remaining with them but a moment; and I flattered myself my absence would be unperceived by the family. But gradually I forgot the anticipated trip, the pleasure awaiting me, my aunt, my mother, in fact, every thing, and lingered, as if chained to my stand, with eyes fixed rapturously on the Pale Lady, (it was thus I designated her,) and blending her image with the wildest adventures my youthful imagination could conceive. Already I had been called twenty times, and the domestics were sent to search for me; but my abstraction was so profound, that I was insensible to all, and still lingered motionless before the portrait, when my aunt opened the door, and surprised me in the gallery. My lengthened absence had begun to occasion alarm, and the frightened manner of my aunt recalled suddenly my wandering thoughts. Perhaps conscious of my fault, or it may be, ashamed of being thus entrapped, I threw myself into my aunt’s arms, and a few tears moistened my cheeks. The reprimand died upon her lips, but yielding to the astonishment inspired by my intense admiration for these old pictures, she said, “My child, you are beholding a woman who has been very beautiful, and very unhappy.” “Very unhappy!” I had then imagined rightly. “Dear aunt, will you relate to me her history!” “Not this morning, they are waiting for us; and beside, you are yet too young.” “Too young to hear her history? Ah! how unfortunate that is! But never mind, by our next visit I shall be twelve years of age, then I will be tall—promise I may hear it then.”