Could he be mistaken by some wonderful resemblance acting upon his too willing brain?
He turned the photograph over.

No; there on the other side, written in her own childlike hand, endeared and familiar to his recollection, was her own name, and the date! It was surely she! How did it come there?
Did the Van Loos know her?
It was taken in Venice; there was the address of the photographers.

The Van Loos were foreigners, he remembered; they had traveled; perhaps had met her there in 1858: that was the date in her handwriting; that was the date on the photographer's address--1858.

Suddenly he laid the photograph down, took with trembling fingers a letter-case from his pocket, opened it, and laid his last letter to her, indorsed with the cruel announcement of her death, before him on the table.

He passed his hand across his forehead and opened the letter.