Perkins turned away disappointed, but with his interest in the stranger more than ever excited.

“Who and what can she be? and why do I feel so deep an interest in a perfect stranger, who cannot possibly be any thing to me?” were involuntary questions which the young man endeavored, but in vain, to answer.

That night, as he sat alone in his room, his friend Milford came in and found him with the miniature before alluded to in his hand.

“Whose sweet face is that?  Bless me!  But she is a lovely creature!” said Milford, as his eye caught a glimpse of the picture which Perkins made a movement to conceal.  “Aha!  Mr. Sober-sides! have I found you out at last?”

But seeing that his remarks had the effect to disturb, even agitate his friend, he said, in a changed tone—­

“Forgive me if I have thoughtlessly jarred a string that vibrates painfully!  I knew not that you carried in your heart an unhealed wound.”

“And yet I do, my friend.  A wound that, I fear, will never cicatrize.  Five years have passed since I parted with the living original of this picture.  The parting was to be only for a few months.  We have never met since, and never will, in this world!  The sea gives not up its dead!”

There was a solemn earnestness in the voice of Perkins, that showed how deeply the loss still affected him.

“To me,” said his companion, after a pause, “it seems strange that you should never have alluded to this subject, even to your nearest friend.”

“I could not, Milford.  The effort to keep my feelings under control has been severe enough, without permitting myself to speak of the matter at all.  But now that it has been alluded to, I feel inclined to talk upon the subject, if you have any desire to hear.”

“I certainly have an anxious desire to hear,” replied Milford.

Perkins shaded his face for a few moments with his hand, and sat silent and thoughtful.  He then gave, in a calm voice, the following narration:—­

“You are aware that, when I came to this city to reside, a few years since, I removed from Troy, New York.  That is my native place—­or, at least, I had lived there from boyhood up, when I removed to Boston.  It is now about ten years since a man named Ballantine, who seemed to possess considerable wealth, made his appearance in the place, accompanied by his daughter, a young girl about thirteen years of age.  He came from New Orleans, where his wife had died, and where he was still engaged in business.  His object in coming North with his child was to secure for her the advantages of a good seminary.  He seemed to prefer Troy, and after remaining there for some months concluded to place his child in the family of a newly-married man, whose wife, somewhat matronly in age and in habits, happened to please his fancy, as a maternal guardian for his child.  After making every requisite arrangement in regard to her education, he returned to New Orleans, from which city money to defray her expenses was regularly transmitted.  Once a year he came North to visit her, and remained in our town for a few weeks.