"I am anxious to explain my strange behavior when you dropped your cloak at the river," he said, in a low tone, his manner full of repressed excitement. "You are the perfect image of an old miniature in my possession, even to every detail of your dress, and I felt startled at the sight of you."
I trembled, yet did not feel greatly surprised.
"If I could only see the miniature," I murmured, hesitatingly.
From an inner breast-pocket he instantly drew a small faded case, and opened it.
"It is painted on ivory, and belongs to a past generation; but you—I can hardly believe that you did not sit for it."
I bent eagerly over it, and saw an exquisitely painted portrait of my grandaunt, evidently copied from the picture in our possession. The blue-gray eyes smiled into mine, the sweet, curved lips seemed ready to unclose in speech.
"Where did you get this picture?" I exclaimed, eagerly.
"It was found among the private papers of an old man, who died in the West Indies, many years ago," Mr. Vandala quietly replied. "He was overseer on one of her father's plantations—accepted the situation until something better should present itself—for he was a stranger in a strange land. He dared to love her, but her family violently opposed their marriage, and succeeded in separating them. In bitterness of spirit, he left the country with the stigma of dishonor upon him."
"Unmerited, unmerited," I said, in a stifled tone.
"Even the girl he loved believed in his guilt, and in a year or two accepted the suitor her family approved of."