Carmilla sat looking listlessly on, while one after the other the old pictures, nearly all portraits, which had undergone the process of renovation, were brought to light.  My mother was of an old Hungarian family, and most of these pictures, which were about to be restored to their places, had come to us through her.

My father had a list in his hand, from which he read, as the artist rummaged out the corresponding numbers.  I don’t know that the pictures were very good, but they were, undoubtedly, very old, and some of them very curious also.  They had, for the most part, the merit of being now seen by me, I may say, for the first time; for the smoke and dust of time had all but obliterated them.

“There is a picture that I have not seen yet,” said my father.  “In one corner, at the top of it, is the name, as well as I could read, ’Marcia Karnstein,’ and the date ‘1698’; and I am curious to see how it has turned out.”

I remembered it; it was a small picture, about a foot and a half high, and nearly square, without a frame; but it was so blackened by age that I could not make it out.

The artist now produced it, with evident pride.  It was quite beautiful; it was startling; it seemed to live.  It was the effigy of Carmilla!

“Carmilla, dear, here is an absolute miracle.  Here you are, living, smiling, ready to speak, in this picture.  Isn’t it beautiful, Papa?  And see, even the little mole on her throat.”

My father laughed, and said “Certainly it is a wonderful likeness,” but he looked away, and to my surprise seemed but little struck by it, and went on talking to the picture cleaner, who was also something of an artist, and discoursed with intelligence about the portraits or other works, which his art had just brought into light and color, while I was more and more lost in wonder the more I looked at the picture.

“Will you let me hang this picture in my room, papa?” I asked.

“Certainly, dear,” said he, smiling, “I’m very glad you think it so like.  It must be prettier even than I thought it, if it is.”

The young lady did not acknowledge this pretty speech, did not seem to hear it.  She was leaning back in her seat, her fine eyes under their long lashes gazing on me in contemplation, and she smiled in a kind of rapture.

“And now you can read quite plainly the name that is written in the corner.  It is not Marcia; it looks as if it was done in gold.  The name is Mircalla, Countess Karnstein, and this is a little coronet over and underneath A.D. 1698.  I am descended from the Karnsteins; that is, mamma was.”

“Ah!” said the lady, languidly, “so am I, I think, a very long descent, very ancient.  Are there any Karnsteins living now?”

“None who bear the name, I believe.  The family were ruined, I believe, in some civil wars, long ago, but the ruins of the castle are only about three miles away.”

“How interesting!” she said, languidly.  “But see what beautiful moonlight!” She glanced through the hall door, which stood a little open.  “Suppose you take a little ramble round the court, and look down at the road and river.”