"Carl has been naughty," replied she. "Carl must remain in his room till the Baron forgives him." This woman, by name Gretel, was tall, angular, and hard of face. I did not care for her; and I noticed that she watched me from the corners of her eyes, somewhat in the same manner that the Baron had watched me as I played on the hearthrug with Marengo in the hotel at Frankfort. "Who is Carl?" said I. "Carl von Lichtenberg?" replied Eloise. "Why, he is the Baron's son. He is eight, and he tore my frock this morning right up here." She shifted in her chair, and plucked up the hem of her tiny skirt to show me the place. "But it was not for that Carl has been put in prison, for I never told, did I, Gretel?" Gretel grunted. "Come," said she, "if you have finished supper you can have half an hour's play before bed." She took the lamp in her hand, and led us from the room down a corridor; then, opening one side of a tall, double door, she led us into an immense picture-gallery. Portraits of dead-and-gone Lichtenbergs stared at us from the walls. Men in armour, knights dressed for the chase, ladies whose beauty or ugliness wore the veil of the centuries. "Why, this is the picture-gallery!" cried Eloise. "It is the shortest way to the playroom," grimly replied Gretel, as she stalked before us with the light. We followed her, walking hand-in-hand, as the babes in the wood walked in that grim story, to which the pity of the robins is the sequel. Suddenly Gretel halted. She stood lamp in hand before a picture. "Ah, Toto!" cried Eloise. I had seized her arm, I suppose roughly in my agitation, for the picture before which Gretel had halted filled me with a sensation I can scarcely describe. Terror!--yes, it was terror, but something else as well. The feeling I had experienced in the carriage, the feeling--"I have been here before"--held my heart. It was the picture of a girl in the garb of many, oh, many years ago; yet I knew her; and out of the past, far out of the past, came that mysterious terror that filled my soul. But for a moment this lasted, and then faded away, and things became commonplace once more; and Gretel was Gretel, the picture a picture, and in my hand lay the warm and charming hand of Eloise, which I had taken again. "That is the picture of Margaret von Lichtenberg," said Gretel, looking at me as she spoke. "How like she is to little Carl!" murmured Eloise. "Gretel, how like she is to little Carl!" "And this," said Gretel, holding the lamp to a small canvas under the large one, "is a picture of an ancestor of yours, little boy, Philippe de Saluce. He loved her, but it was many years ago. Eloise, come closer; see, who is this little picture like?" "Why, it is Toto!" cried Eloise, clapping her hands. "Toto, look!" I looked. It was the picture of a boy, a picture of the Marquis Philippe de Saluce, taken when he was quite young.