Chapter vii. The Woman on the Bridge.
My mother looked in at the library door, and disturbed me over my books.
“I have been hanging a little picture in my room,” she said. “Come upstairs, my dear, and give me your opinion of it.”
I rose and followed her. She pointed to a miniature portrait, hanging above the mantelpiece.
“Do you know whose likeness that is?” she asked, half sadly, half playfully. “George! Do you really not recognize yourself at thirteen years old?”
How should I recognize myself? Worn by sickness and sorrow; browned by the sun on my long homeward voyage; my hair already growing thin over my forehead; my eyes already habituated to their one sad and weary look; what had I in common with the fair, plump, curly-headed, bright-eyed boy who confronted me in the miniature? Th
