any sterner and more practical nature. Mervale would have looked on his revelations as the ravings of madness, and most men, at best, as the sicklied chimeras, the optical delusions, of disease. Thus gradually preparing himself for that relief for which he yearned, the moment for his disclosure arrived thus:-- One evening, as they sat alone together, Adela, who inherited some portion of her brother’s talent in art, was employed in drawing, and Glyndon, rousing himself from meditations less gloomy than usual, rose, and affectionately passing his arm round her waist, looked over her as she sat. An exclamation of dismay broke from his lips,--he snatched the drawing from her hand: “What are you about?--what portrait is this?” “Dear Clarence, do you not remember the original?--it is a copy from that portrait of our wise ancestor which our poor mother used to say so strongly resembled you. I thought it would please you if I copied it from memory.” “Accursed was the likeness!” said Glyndon, gloomily. “Guess you not the reason why I have shunned to return to the home of my fathers!--because I dreaded to meet that portrait!--because--because--but pardon me; I alarm you!” “Ah, no,--no, Clarence, you never alarm me when you speak: only when you are silent! Oh, if you thought me worthy of your trust; oh, if you had given me the right to reason with you in the sorrows that I yearn to share!” Glyndon made no answer, but paced the room for some moments with disordered strides. He stopped at last, and gazed at her earnestly. “Yes, you, too, are his descendant; you know that such men have lived and suffered; you will not mock me,--you will not disbelieve! Listen! hark!--what sound is that?” “But the wind on the house-top, Clarence,--but the wind.” “Give me your hand; let me feel its living clasp; and when I have told you, never revert to the tale again. Conceal it from all: swear that it shall die with us,--the last of our predestined race!”