"That must be my grandmother, with whom you are in such raptures, at present," said John Effingham, laughing--"I was comparing it yesterday with the picture of Eve, which is in the Russia-leather case, that you will find somewhere there. I do not wonder, however, at your admiration, for she was a beauty in her day, and no woman is fool enough to be painted after she grows ugly." "Not so--not so--Mr. Effingham! This is the miniature I lost in the Montauk, and which I had given up as booty to the Arabs. It has, doubtless, found its way into your state-room, and has been put among your effects by your man, through mistake. It is very precious to me, for it is nearly every memorial I possess of my own mother!" "Your mother!" exclaimed John Effingham rising. "I think there must be some mistake, for I examined all those pictures this very morning, and it is the first time they have been opened since our arrival from Europe. It cannot be the missing picture." "Mine it is certainly; in that I cannot be mistaken!" "It would be odd indeed, if one of my grandmothers, for both are there, should prove to be your mother.--Powis, will you have the goodness to let me see the picture you mean." Paul brought the miniature and a light, placing both before the eyes of his friend. "That!" exclaimed John Effingham, his voice sounding harsh and unnatural to the listener,--"that picture like _your_ mother!" "It is her miniature--_the_ miniature that was transmitted to me, from those who had charge of my childhood. I cannot be mistaken as to the countenance, or the dress." "And your father's name was Assheton?" "Certainly--John Assheton, of the Asshetons of Pennsylvania." John Effingham groaned aloud; when Paul stepped back equally shocked and surprised, he saw that the face of his friend was almost livid, and that the hand which held the picture shook like the aspen. "Are you unwell, dear Mr. Effingham?" "No--no--'tis impossible! This lady never had a child. Powis, you have been deceived by some fancied, or some real resemblance. This picture is mine, and has not been out of my possession these five and twenty years." "Pardon me, sir, it is the picture of my mother, and no other; the very picture lost in the Montauk." The gaze that John Effingham cast upon the young man was ghastly; and Paul was about to ring the bell, but a gesture of denial prevented him. "See," said John Effingham, hoarsely, as he touched a spring in the setting, and exposed to view the initials of two names interwoven with hair--"is this, too, yours?" Paul looked surprised and disappointed. "That certainly settles the question; my miniature had no such addition; and yet I believe that sweet and pensive countenance to be the face of my own beloved mother, and of no one else."