Morris looked at the portrait in astonishment, and then at the girl by his side. “Why, Katherine,” he cried, “it is your picture!” The young lady was standing with her hands tightly clenched and her lips quivering with nervous excitement. There were tears in her eyes, and she did not answer her lover for a moment; then she said— “No, it is not my picture. This is a portrait of my mother.” Mrs. Tremain “And Woman, wit a flaming torch Sings heedless, in a powder-mine Her careless smiles they warp and scorch Man’s heart, as fire the pine Cuts keener than the thrust of lance Her glance” The trouble about this story is that it really has no ending. Taking an ocean voyage is something like picking up an interesting novel, and reading a chapter in the middle of it. The passenger on a big steamer gets glimpses of other people’s lives, but he doesn’t know what the beginning was, nor what the ending will be. The last time I saw Mrs. Tremain she was looking over her shoulder and smiling at Glendenning as she walked up the gangway plank at Liverpool, hanging affectionately on the arm of her husband. I said to myself at the time, “You silly little handsome idiot, Lord only knows what trouble you will cause before flirting has lost its charm for you.” Personally I would like to have shoved Glendenning off the gangway plank into the dark Mersey; but that would have been against the laws of the country on which we were then landing. Mrs. Tremain was a woman whom other women did not like, and whom men did. Glendenning was a man that the average man detested, but he was a great favourite with the ladies.