In the whole of the house there was but one object which arrested my attention, and the interest which that one object aroused in my mind had no relation to the Haygarthian fortune.
Over a high carved chimney-piece in one of the bedchambers there hung a little row of miniatures--old-fashioned oval miniatures, pale and faded--pictures of men and women with the powdered hair of the Georgian period, and the flowing full-bottomed wigs familiar to St.James's and Tunbridge-wells in the days of inoffensive Anne.

There were in all seven miniatures, six of which specimens of antique portraiture were prim and starched and artificial of aspect.

But the seventh was different in form and style: it was the picture of a girlish face looking out of a frame of loose unpowdered locks; a bright innocent face, with gray eyes and marked black eyebrows, pouting lips a little parted, and white teeth gleaming between lips of rosy red; such a face as one might fancy the inspiration of an old poet.

I took the miniature gently from the little brass hook on which it hung, and stood for some time looking at the bright frank face.
It was the picture of Charlotte Halliday.

Yes; I suppose there is a fatality in these things.