Laura had all this settled satisfactorily in her mind after she had chatted awhile with Esther in the sunny room, and taken in more completely its various details, such as the fishnet drapery by the windows, the group of shells on the plant-stand, and several photographs of a sea-coast.  And when shown other sea-country treasures,—­bits of coral and ivory and mosses,—­things grew plainer than ever, and she began to have a very clear notion of Esther’s past surroundings, and pictured her mother as one of those neat, trim, anxious-faced little women she had often seen in her sea or mountain summerings.  It was just when she had got this fancy picture sharply defined that she heard Esther say, as a door leading from the next room opened,—­

[Illustration:  A tall, handsome woman smiled a greeting]

“Mother dear, this is my friend Laura Brooks, I’ve told you about;” and Laura, rising hastily, turned to see no trim, anxious-faced little person, but a tall, handsome, dark-eyed woman smiling a greeting to her daughter’s guest over the pot of tea and plate of bread and butter that she carried.  Not in the least like the fancy picture; but who—­who was it she suggested?

All through the little meal this question kept recurring to Laura.  Where had she seen that dark, handsome face before?  It recurred to her again, as she followed the mother and daughter up to the little third-story room, to see the beautiful sunset effects.  Where had she seen just that profile against such a sunset light?  Then all at once, as the declining beams sent a redder ray across the nose and chin, the question was answered.  The red ray had also illumined Laura’s own face, and Mrs. Bodn, turning suddenly, caught the girl’s curiously animated expression, and asked inquiringly, “What is it, my dear?” and Laura answered eagerly,—­

“Oh, do you know that picture of Walter Scott’s ‘Rebecca,’ painted by some great English artist, I think?  My uncle has a copy of it in his library, and it is so like you, so like you, Mrs. Bodn.  The moment I saw you I was sure that I had met you before; but just now, when the sunset lit up your face, I knew at once what made it so familiar.  It was its great resemblance to the ‘Rebecca.’  Oh, do you know the picture, Mrs. Bodn?”

“Yes, perfectly well,” answered Mrs. Bodn, quietly; “but it was not painted by an English artist, it was the work of a young German who is now dead.  He was very little known, though he did some fine work.”

“And did you know that the picture was so like you, Mrs. Bodn?”

“Well, yes, I knew that it was thought to be like me when it was painted; and it ought to be, you know, for I sat for it,—­I was the model.”

“You were a—­a—­the model,” gasped Laura, in astonishment.

“Yes, I was a—­a—­the model,” answered Mrs. Bodn, repeating Laura’s own halting syllables, with an accent half of amusement, half of sarcasm.  Then, more seriously, she added, “It was years ago, when I was living in Munich.”