It was the portrait of a lady, and her expression was very like that of her mother--so like that she could almost believe the picture had been painted for her mother.

Yet that could not be, for the lady was young, and plump, and rosy, and wore rich laces, and a costly dress.

She seemed to look down upon her from the golden frame with a smile of satisfaction.

There was something roguish in her eye, as though she was on the point of bursting into a laugh at some mischief she had perpetrated.

O, no! that could not be her mother; she had never seen her look like that.