"Mr. Marchdale, look at that portrait."

He pointed to the portrait in the frame to which we have alluded, and
the moment Marchdale looked at it he sunk into a chair as he
exclaimed,--

"Gracious Heaven, how like!"

"It is--it is," said Henry. "Those eyes--"

"And see the contour of the countenance, and the strange shape of the
mouth."

"Exact--exact."

"That picture shall be moved from here. The sight of it is at once
sufficient to awaken all her former terrors in poor Flora's brain if she
should chance to awaken and cast her eyes suddenly upon it."

"And is it so like him who came here?" said the mother.

"It is the very man himself," said Mr. Marchdale. "I have not been in
this house long enough to ask any of you whose portrait that may be?"

"It is," said Henry, "the portrait of Sir Runnagate Bannerworth, an
ancestor of ours, who first, by his vices, gave the great blow to the
family prosperity."

"Indeed. How long ago?"