the canvas, smiles ambiguously,--smiles with a woman's mouth, set above
a resolute chin, however,--and with a sort of humorous sadness in his
eyes. These latter are of a dark shade of blue--purple, if you
will,--and his hair is tinged with red.

"Why, he took after me!" said Miss Stapylton. "How thoughtful of him,
Olaf!"

And Rudolph Musgrave saw the undeniable resemblance. It gave him a queer
sort of shock, too, as he comprehended, for the first time, that the
faint blue vein on that lifted arm held Musgrave blood,--the same blood
which at this thought quickened. For any person guided by appearances,
Rudolph Musgrave considered, would have surmised that the vein in
question contained celestial ichor or some yet diviner fluid.

"It is true," he conceded, "that there is a certain likeness."

"And he is a very beautiful boy," said Miss Stapylton, demurely. "Thank
you, Olaf; I begin to think you are a dangerous flatterer. But he is
only a boy, Olaf! And I had always thought of Gerald Musgrave as a
learned person with a fringe of whiskers all around his face--like a
centerpiece, you know."

The colonel smiled. "This portrait was painted early in life. Our
kinsman was at that time, I believe, a person of rather frivolous
tendencies. Yet he was not quite thirty when he first established his
reputation by his monograph upon _The Evolution of Marriage_. And
afterwards, just prior to his first meeting with Goethe, you will
remember--"