“The casket is nothing to its contents,” said he, smiling at our admiration of the box, and taking from it a shagreen picture-case which he opened. “What say you to this portrait?” said he shewing us a pretty large miniature of a gentleman in a Spanish habit; “did you ever see a more manly, gracious countenance?” We examined it, and to the praise due to the artist, and the noble lineaments he had preserved, was added our admiration of the rich diamonds which encircled it. “It ought to have a companion,” observed your father, taking up another shagreen case, similar to the one before us; but it might have been as well if the picture of the lady had never reached my hand; for Harriet may be jealous of its superlative beauty. He added, that the story of the lovers was long and disastrous; and might be the ground work of a tragedy not unlike in many particulars to “the Fatal Marriage.” “I remember,” continued he, “that when my father many years since shewed me the two pictures, he briefly mentioned some circumstances, which touched me to the soul. He was the friend intrusted with these portraits, and with the care of seeking out an infant son, who had been conveyed from Madrid when no more than three days old; and who had unaccountably eluded all the enquiries which my father had, at that time, been able to make. My absence from Scotland, and my father’s death with other events,” he sighed—“obliterated from my memory this box and the particulars I have mentioned. About a month since, it was sent me, having been deposited by my father previously to his death in the hands of a minister of the Kirk of Scotland, He on his death-bed sent it, to me, with many injunctions to be careful of it. Amongst several letters written in Spanish, from which I can only discover the writers to be of high rank, I found also a deposition made by my father, and addressed to myself. He informs me, that having traced, as he believes, the invaluable child of his noble friends, he had sent his mother’s picture to the faithful woman who had been the only person privy to his birth, and who passed for his mother. This I was instructed to do, added my father; and the test of the boy’s identity, rested on the woman’s returning the picture, with the name of her lady annexed to it. She received it from faithful hands; for I was already on that bed of death, from which I am permitted to write this. She said she should write to me from London, having in her turn instructions to follow; and that with the witnesses of her integrity she should present herself before me with her precious charge, and with transports of joy make over to my care a youth worthy of the Duke and Dutchess; she signed herself S. Duncan. Philip advanced to the table; he examined the picture attentively.” “Does your romance finish here?” asked he, “So it appears,” replied my husband, “otherwise that picture, and the letters would have been reclaimed.” “I should think no one will