“I came in search of Regina, but chancing to hear the piano question discussed, permit me to say that I prefer to take the matter in my own hands.  I will provide whatever may be deemed requisite, so that this young lady’s Rothschild’s allowance may continue to flow uninterruptedly into the coffers of confectioners and flower-dealers.  Mrs. Palma, if you can spare the carriage, I should like the use of it for an hour or two.”

“Oh, certainly!  I had thought of driving to Stewart’s, but to-morrow will suit me quite as well.”

“By no means.  You will have ample time after my return.  Regina, I wish to see you.”

She followed him into the hall.

“In the box of clothing that arrived several days ago, there is a white cashmere suit with blue silk trimmings?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Be so good as to put it on.  Then wrap up well, and when ready come to the library.  Do not keep me waiting.  Bring your hair-brush and comb.”

Her mother had sent from Europe a tasteful wardrobe, which, when unpacked, Mrs. Palma pronounced perfect; while Olga asserted that one particular sash surpassed anything of the kind she had ever seen, and was prevailed upon to accept and wear it.

With many conjectures concerning the import of Mr. Palma’s supervision of her toilette, Regina obeyed his instructions, and fearful of trespassing on his patience, hurried down to the library.

With one arm behind him, and the hand of the other holding a half-smoked cigar, he was walking meditatively up and down the polished floor, that reflected his tall shadow.

“Where do you suppose you are going?”

“I have no idea.”

“Why do you not inquire?”

“Because you will not tell me till you choose; and I know that questions always annoy you.”

“Come in.  You linger at the door as if this were the den of a lion at a menagerie, instead of a room to which you have been cordially invited several times.  I am not voracious, have had my luncheon.  You are quite ready?”

“Quite ready——­”

She was slowly walking down the long room, and suddenly caught sight of something that seemed to take away her breath.

The clock on the mantle had been removed to the desk, and in its place was a large portrait neither square nor yet exactly kit-cat, but in proportion more nearly resembled the latter.  In imitation of Da Vinci’s celebrated picture in the Louvre, the background represented a stretch of arid rocky landscape, unrelieved by foliage, and against it rose in pose and general outline the counterpart of “La Joconde.”

The dress and drapery were of black velvet, utterly bare of ornament, and out of the canvas looked a face of marvellous, yet mysteriously mournful beauty.  The countenance of a comparatively young woman, whose radiant brown eyes had dwelt in some penetrale of woe, until their light was softened, saddened; whose regular features were statuesque in their solemn repose, and whose gold-tinted hair simply parted on her white round brow, fell in glinting waves down upon her polished shoulders.  The mystical pale face of one who seemed alike incapable of hope or of regret, who gazed upon past, present, future, as proud, as passionless and calm as Destiny; and whose perfect hands were folded in stern fateful rest.