Knowing that all reasoning would be ineffectual in my friend’s present mood, I simply tried to relieve her sadness by talking upon other subjects on the way. The likeness was a perfect one. It might have presented a gloomy countenance, but fortunately, I whispered to her, as she seated herself— “Now, Fanny, do let your mother have a pleasant smile, or she will not like the picture.” I wish you could see the likeness; the position was so natural and the work so beautifully executed! But you cannot—Fanny gave it into my hands to be faithfully delivered to her mother at some future time; and now—but my story must develop its present hiding-place. Shall I tell you of our long rail-road journey, and of the dark tunnels through which we passed, reminding one of the “valley of death,” where, as I carelessly alluded to this resemblance, Fanny’s hand grasped, mine with a touch so cold as to send a sympathetic chill of horror through my veins? Or shall I tell you of the shorter stage-ride, and the close companionship of its occupants? No, I will not weary you with either of these in detail; for there was nothing to vary the usual monotony of such journeys we being allowed the customary number of crying babies, and troublesome older children, and the same amount of agreeable and disagreeable strangers. We found Caroline delighted to see us, (as who would not be,) and I was pleased to notice that much of Fanny’s sadness had disappeared during the first evening. The next morning, however, it was again observable in a listless demeanor, or deep sigh in the midst of a witty remark, or gay laugh. “What is the matter with you, Fanny?” Caroline asked, after some very marked signs of abstractedness on the part of the former. “Oh, nothing at all!” Fanny answered quickly, and for a while she endeavored to take more interest in our conversation, but this soon subsided. “Fanny, if you can give no better explanation of your conduct this morning, I must be under the necessity of attributing it to the usual cause of sighs and absent-mindedness, and believe you to be in love,” Caroline said. Fanny colored, and exclaimed— “Oh, no indeed, I am not!” “Then don’t look so confused and mortified, my dear; for even if you were, you need not be ashamed of it,” Caroline answered composedly. Fanny left the room soon after this, and I produced the daguerreotype from a corner in my work-box, and showed it to Caroline. She pronounced it the very best likeness she had ever seen, and laid it on the sofa-table. Just then a visiter was announced, proving to be Mr. Harry Lambert, who had spent the previous winter in Philadelphia. After a mutual recognition, and a few of the common-place inquiries usually made upon such occasions, had passed, he carelessly opened the case containing Fanny’s likeness. As the face met his eye, I thought he changed color, but this may have been mere fancy; for he said, in a perfectly calm and indifferent tone,