through the sweet summer air, the
water of many fountains rippled musically, rare flowers charmed the eye
and sent forth sweet perfume; but neither song of birds nor fragrance
of flowers--neither sunshine nor music--brought any brightness to the
grave faces of the father and son.

With slow steps they quitted the broad terrace, and entered the hall.
They passed through a long suite of magnificent apartments, up the
broad marble staircase, through long corridors, until they reached the
picture gallery, one of the finest in England. Nearly every great
master was represented there. Murillo, Guido, Raphael, Claude
Lorraine, Salvator Rosa, Correggio, and Tintoretto. The lords of
Earlescourt had all loved pictures, and each of them ad added to the
treasures of that wonderful gallery.

One portion of the gallery was set aside for the portraits of the
family. Grim old warriors and fair ladies hung side by side; faces of
marvelous beauty, bearing the signs of noble descent, shone out clearly
from their gilded frames.

"Look, Ronald," Lord Earle said, laying one hand upon his shoulder,
"you stand before your ancestors now. Yours is a grand old race.
England knows and honors it. Look at these pictured faces of the wives
our fathers chose. There is Lady Sybella Earle; when one of Cromwell's
soldiers drew his dagger to slay her husband, the truest friend King
Charles ever had, she flung herself before him, and received the blow
in his stead. She died, and he lived--noble and beautiful, is she not?
Now look at the Lacy Alicia--this fair patrician lady smiling by the
side of her grim lord; she, at the risk of her life, helped him to fly
from prison, where he lay condemned to death for some great political
wrong. She saved him, and for her sake he received pardon. Here is
the Lady Helena--she is not beautiful, but look at the intellect, the
queenly brow, the soul-lit eyes! She, I need not tell you, was a
poetess. Wherever the English language was spoken, her verses were
read--men were nobler and better for reading them. The ladies of our
race were such that brave men may be proud of them. Is it not so,
Ronald?"

"Yes," he replied, calmly; "they were noble women."

Lord Earle then led his son to a large painting, upon which the western
sunbeams lingered, brightening the fair face they shone upon, until it
seemed living and smiling. A deep and tender reverence stole into Lord
Earle's voice as he spoke:

"No fairer