I was resolved, if possible, before the day should be over, to hear from Mathilde the tragic story of Madeleine Van Der Vaughan, whose portrait I had mentally identified as that of the awful visitant of my midnight hours. The opportunity came, or rather, I made it. Mathilde had early completed her toilet for the evening. I had done likewise. And at five o'clock we found ourselves alone together in the drawing-room of the new house. The lamps were not as yet lighted. The hickory fire had ceased to blaze, and now only burned redly, showing out a strong, solid heat, in what Uncle Judah called "solemn columns," and casting over the dark chamber a sombre, ruddy twilight. We sat down by the fire together. There would be no chance for the next half hour of being interrupted. For Mr. Legare was still engaged at his breakfast in the dining-room. Mrs. Legare was busy in her pantry and the kitchen, and the few servants of the now reduced establishment were in constant attendance upon their master or mistress. Rachel Noales was upstairs in my chamber, dressing for the evening, and the other young persons of the Christmas party were in the bedrooms of the old house, similarly engaged. There was not the slightest possibility of an interruption. Mathilde commenced speaking. "I believe you are pleased with your chamber, Agnes?" "Charmed," I answered. Without perceiving the _double entendre_ hidden in my reply, she said: "And you have always slept well, then?" "Never better," I replied; "in that chamber," I mentally added. In her ignorance of this silent reservation, she was pleased with my answer, and sat smiling quietly and studying, apparently, the glowing coals of fire in the chimneyplace. I broke her reverie by saying, in a careless, off-hand way: "_Apropos de rien_, you have not told me the story of that mysterious portrait yet." "No, I haven't! But, indeed, I am not sure that the history of Madeleine Van Der Vaughan has anything to do with that portrait, since I am not sure that it is hers." "No matter; take it for granted that it is; or at least tell the story whether or not." "Very well; listen, then," said Mathilde, settling herself comfortably in her chair, and commencing the narrative. "The Van Der Vaughans, as you may perceive by their name, are of Teutonic origin, though by frequent intermarriage with other races, they have no doubt lost, or modified, many of their national traits. Their residence, in this part of the country, dates back to the time of the first settlement of New York by the Dutch.