ip and antique design. "There," she cried, "am I not
right?"

Maggie took it to the light. Around the hilt was wrapped a scroll, which
she was about to read, when, with a sudden fancy, she paused and said,
"What am I doing? These are family secrets, and meant, perhaps, only for
your eyes, Lord Brompton."

"Read it, I beg," said he. She obeyed him. In a faint, feminine hand,
which resembled a field of corn bowed by the wind, were written these
words:

"My grandfather's sword. MARIAN RIPON."

"The ghost--it is the ghost's own work," they cried together.

"And this sword," said he, "belonged to my namesake, the cavalier."

"But look--look." Maggie had been staring at the opposite side of the
paper.

Geoffrey took it from her hand.

"Kind hearts are more than coronets
And simple faith than Norman blood."

For a moment they looked at one another in speechless surprise.

"Kneel, Lord Brompton," she said at length. He did so, and taking a
scarf from among the pile of vestments she girded the sword about him
with fantastic grace. "Rise, Geoffrey Ripon, knight, and Earl of
Brompton."

"You are forever my sovereign." He kissed her hand. She blushed sweetly,
and turning said, "Enough of the past and its customs. We each have a
present to face, and mine for the nonce is Jawkins. He must need my
directions."

Thus it happened that when Lord Brompton next entered the porter's lodge
in which he dwelt, he was girded with the sword of his ancestors.

CHAPTER IV.

JARLEY JAWKINS.

The library of Ripon House was an apartment panelled in oak, blackened
by time and smoke. The high and richly carved mantelpiece bore the arms
of the Ripon family, three wolves on a field, or, surmounted by a wild
man from Borneo rampant, bearing a battle-axe, gules. Shelves which once
were filled with fine books were then empty, the void being covered by
old tapestries. The furniture was old and gaunt, save for a few modern
soft-cushioned chairs which seemed to have been recently deposited
there, and were, by the brilliant color of their coverings, not at all
in harmony with the faded tapestries of their high-backed and carven
predecessors. On one of the gaunt old chairs Abraham Windsor was seated,
holding in his right hand the London _Times_, which slowly issued from a
"ticker" upon the table at his side. After looking sharply at the
financial news, which just then was being recorded in the "Thunderer,"
he glanced