“I congratulate you, Mr. Germaine, on your power of painting in words. Your description gives me a vivid idea of Mrs. Van Brandt.”

“Does the portrait please you, Miss Dunross?”

“May I speak as plainly as usual?”

“Certainly!”

“Well, then, plainly, I don’t like your Mrs. Van Brandt.”

Ten days had passed; and thus far Miss Dunross had made her way into my confidence already!

By what means had she induced me to trust her with those secret and sacred sorrows of my life which I had hitherto kept for my mother’s ear alone? I can easily recall the rapid and subtle manner in which her sympathies twined themselves round mine; but I fail entirely¹ to trace the infinite gradations of approach by which she surprised and conquered my habitual² reserve. The strongest influence of all, the influence of the eye, was not hers. When the light was admitted into the room she was shrouded³ in her veil. At all other times the curtains were drawn⁴, the screen was before the fire — I could see dimly the outline of her face, and I could see no more. The secret of her influence was perhaps partly attributable to the simple and sisterly manner in which she spoke⁵ to me, and partly to the indescribable interest which associated itself with her mere⁶ presence in the room. Her father had told me that she “carried the air of heaven with her.” In my experience, I can only say that she carried something with her which softly and inscrutably possessed⁷ itself of my will, and made me as unconsciously obedient to her wishes as if I had been her dog. The love-story of my boyhood, in all its particulars, down even to the gift of the green flag; the mystic predictions of Dame⁸ Dermody; the loss of every trace of my little Mary of former days; the rescue of Mrs. Van Brandt from the river; the

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