"What are you about?--what portrait is this?""Dear Clarence, do you not remember the original?--it is a copy from that portrait of our wise ancestor which our poor mother used to say so strongly resembled you.I thought it would please you if I copied it from memory.""Accursed was the likeness!" said Glyndon, gloomily."Guess you not the reason why I have shunned to return to the home of my fathers!--because I dreaded to meet that portrait!--because--because--but pardon me; I alarm you!"
"Ah, no,--no, Clarence, you never alarm me when you speak: only when you are silent! Oh, if you thought me worthy of your trust;oh, if you had given me the right to reason with you in the sorrows that I yearn to share!"Glyndon made no answer, but paced the room for some moments with disordered strides.He stopped at last, and gazed at her earnestly."Yes, you, too, are his descendant; you know that such men have lived and suffered; you will not mock me,-- you will not disbelieve! Listen! hark!--what sound is that?""But the wind on the house-top, Clarence,--but the wind.""Give me your hand; let me feel its living clasp; and when I have told you, never revert to the tale again.Conceal it from all:
