middle his wise majesty, who was making a low bow; while in the other it
took the ground from under the wanton queen, just as she was descending
from her chariot.

Near the window stood a grand piano, the only modern article in the room,
save one of the portraits, presently to be described. On all this Evelyn
gazed silently and devoutly: she had naturally that reverence for genius
which is common to the enthusiastic and young; and there is, even to the
dullest, a certain interest in the homes of those who have implanted
within us a new thought. But here there was, she imagined, a rare and
singular harmony between the place and the mental characteristics of the
owner. She fancied she now better understood the shadowy and
metaphysical repose of thought that had distinguished the earlier
writings of Maltravers,--the writings composed or planned in this still
retreat.

But what particularly caught her attention was one of the two portraits
that adorned the mantelpieces. The further one was attired in the rich
and fanciful armour of the time of Elizabeth; the head bare, the helmet
on a table on which the hand rested. It was a handsome and striking
countenance; and an inscription announced it to be a Digby, an ancestor
of Maltravers.

But the other was a beautiful girl of about eighteen, in the now almost
antiquated dress of forty years ago. The features were delicate, but the
colours somewhat faded, and there was something mournful in the
expression. A silk curtain, drawn on one side, seemed to denote how
carefully it was prized by the possessor.

Evelyn turned for explanation to her cicerone.