This reverie of conjecture was interrupted by the entrance of the landlady.  My friend had almost forgotten the object of his visit; and when his anxious inquiries proved vain, he drew the loquacious hostess into general conversation, in order to elicit the mystery of the beautiful portrait.  She was a robust, gray-haired woman, with whose constitutional good-nature care had waged a long and partially successful war.  That indescribable air which speaks of better days was visible at a glance; the remnants of bygone gentility were obvious in her dress; she had the peculiar manner of one who had enjoyed social consideration; and her language indicated familiarity with cultivated society; yet the anxious expression habitual to her countenance, and the bustling air of her vocation which quickly succeeded conversational repose, hinted but too plainly straitened circumstances and daily toil.  But what struck her present curious visitor more than these casual traits were the remains of great beauty in the still lovely contour of the face, the refined lines of her mouth, and the depth and varied play of the eyes.  He was both sympathetic and ingenious, and ere long gained the confidence of his auditor.  The unfeigned interest and the true perception he manifested in speaking of the portrait rendered him, in its owner’s estimation, worthy to know the story his own intuition had so nearly divined.  The original was Theodosia, the daughter of Aaron Burr.  His affection for her was the redeeming fact of his career and character.  Both were anomalous in our history.  In an era remarkable for patriotic self-sacrifice, he became infamous for treasonable ambition; among a phalanx of statesmen illustrious for directness and integrity, he pursued the tortuous path of perfidious intrigue; in a community where the sanctities of domestic life were unusually revered, he bore the stigma of unscrupulous libertinism.  With the blood of his gallant adversary and his country’s idol on his hands, the penalties of debt and treason hanging over him, the fertility of an acute intellect wasted on vain expedients,—­an outlaw, an adventurer, a plausible reasoner with one sex and fascinating betrayer of the other, poor, bereaved, contemned,—­one holy, loyal sentiment lingered in his perverted soul,—­love for the fair, gifted, gentle being who called him father.  The only disinterested sympathy his letters breathe is for her; and the feeling and sense of duty they manifest offer a remarkable contrast to the parallel record of a life of unprincipled schemes, misused talents, and heartless amours.  As if to complete the tragic antithesis of destiny, the beloved and gifted woman who thus shed an angelic ray upon that dark career was soon after her father’s return from Europe lost in a storm at sea while on her way to visit him, thus meeting a fate which, even at the distance of time, is remembered with pity.  Her wretched father bore with him, in all his wanderings and through all