With the breath coming and going quickly through her parted lips, she stepped slowly and timidly up to that corner in the wall behind the picture, where the fastenings of the spring pulley were concealed, and fitted the key into the padlock which guarded it.  The light of the setting sun threw a flame of glory aslant through the windows, and filled the gallery with a warm rush of living colour and radiance; and as she removed the padlock, and came to the front of the picture to pull the curtain-cord, she stood, unconsciously to herself, in a pure halo of gold, which intensified the brown and amber shades of her hair and the creamy folds of her gown, so that she resembled ‘an angel newly drest, save wings, for heaven,’ such as one may see delineated on the illuminated page of some antique missal.  Her hand trembled, as at the first touch on the pulley the curtain began to move,—­inch by inch it ascended, showing pale glimmerings of white and rose,—­still higher it moved, giving to the light a woman’s beautiful hand, so delicately painted as to seem almost living.  The hand held a letter, and plainly on the half unfolded scroll could be read the words: 

“Thine till death, Robert Vancourt.”

Another touch, and the whole covering rolled up swiftly to its full height,—­while Maryllia breathless with excitement and interest gazed with all her soul in her eyes at the exquisite, dreamy, poetic loveliness of the face disclosed.  All the beauty of girlhood with the tenderness of womanhood,—­all the visions of young romance, united to the fulfilled passion of the heart,—­all the budding happiness of a radiant life,-all the promise of a perfect love;—­ these were faithfully reflected in the purely moulded features, the dark blue caressing eyes, and the sweet mouth, which to Maryllia’s fervid imagination appeared to tremble plaintively with a sigh of longing for the joy of life that had been snatched away so soon.  Arrayed in simplest white, with a rose at her breast, and her husband’s letter clasped in her hand, the fair form of the young bride that never came home gathered from the sunset-radiance an aspect of life, and seemed to float forth from the dark canvas like a holy spirit of beauty and blessing.  Shadow and Substance—­dead mother and living child—­these twain gazed on each other through cloud-veils of impenetrable mystery,—­nor is it impossible to conceive that some intangible contact between them might, through the transference of a thought, a longing, a prayer, have been realised at that mystic moment.  With a sudden cry of irresistible emotion Maryllia stretched out her arms, and dropping on her knees, broke out into a passion of tears.

“Oh mother, mother!” she sobbed—­“Oh darling mother!  I would have loved you!”

XII