"Yes; Mr. Herman Vandala, from New Orleans. He arrived only yesterday, to look after some land an agent had bought for him. My dear, he is a splendid fellow, rich, and a pet of society, but not in the least spoiled. He came across the river with us." We were at the ferry, and in the light of the boatman’s lantern I could see the stranger leaning on the railing guarding the water’s edge. He was slender, and not above medium height, and when he threw his cigar into the water, and turned toward us, a curious sensation, conviction—I know not which—came over me, that I had met him before; that his dark, handsome face, and clear, winning eyes were familiar to me, I stammered when introduced, and stumbled so awkwardly when he held out his hand to assist me into the boat, that my cloak dropped to the ground. It was his turn to lose composure. He grew very pale, and stared at me as though I embodied a ghost. "I beg your pardon," he murmured; my wraps were restored, and I sank tremblingly to the seat. The remarks addressed to me, while crossing the river, were answered only in monosyllables. A kind of breathless expectation had seized upon me. What would happen next, I wondered? As often as I encountered Mr. Vandala’s eyes, I felt the blood rush afresh to my face. When we landed, to my relief, Mrs. Landsdell claimed the stranger as her escort, leaving me to the care of her husband. But the moment an opportunity presented itself, after we entered the ballroom, Mr. Vandala came to me. "Miss D’Esterre, will you promenade with me?" I accepted his offered arm, and we passed into the parlor. "I am anxious to explain my strange behavior when you dropped your cloak at the river," he said, in a low tone, his manner full of repressed excitement. "You are the perfect image of an old miniature in my possession, even to every detail of your dress, and I felt startled at the sight of you." I trembled, yet did not feel greatly surprised. "If I could only see the miniature," I murmured, hesitatingly. From an inner breast-pocket he instantly drew a small faded case, and opened it. "It is painted on ivory, and belongs to a past generation; but you—I can hardly believe that you did not sit for it." I bent eagerly over it, and saw an exquisitely painted portrait of my grandaunt, evidently copied from the picture in our possession. The blue-gray eyes smiled into mine, the sweet, curved lips seemed ready to unclose in speech. "Where did you get this picture?" I exclaimed, eagerly.