ith broad, carved stairways, and great, wide
hearths for andirons,--a house to make the heart glad, and incline it to
all sweet hospitalities. The warm, low rooms were full of furniture,
softened and made comfortable by unsparing use; the walls were hung with
good paintings and engravings, some of them real masterpieces. But the
glory of the house was its bronzes, gathered by three generations of
rarely cultured men, from my great-great-grandfather, whose rougher
purchases were put in more hidden corners every year, to the grandson
now in possession, whose pure taste chose the latest gems of French art,
and placed them where our eyes might best enjoy their beauty. The
library was crimson, and the dining-room beyond two exquisite shades of
brown and gold, a curtained doorway between. In these two rooms I spent
most of my time when I was with my grandfather, reading with him, and
singing to him, and listening to his cynical, witty talk. At dusk we
gathered round the fire, he and I and the two tawny setters, three of us
on the rug, and he in his long, low chair, and talked of the old family,
whose sons were all dead, and of the gay years when we had been in our
glory. I thought we were very well off in worldly possessions as it
was, but my dear old hero put such content to speedy flight with his
tales of the days that were gone, when, to put implicit trust in him, a
regal hospitality had filled the house with great and distinguished
guests, glad to be with the family which always had a son leading the
right in state and in church, in army and in navy.

I listened with glowing heart, and looked proudly at our men as I walked
by their portraits in the halls on my way to bed. Perhaps my faith in
their great deeds is not so childlike now; but it was pure and unlimited
then, and those library stories can never fade from my memory.

I had been with my grandfather a week when the conversation with which
my tale opens occurred, and I was to return to my parents in three days,
under the protection of the very gentleman who was the subject of it.
The two old friends were very intimate, and Mr. Erle spent every evening
at the house; so I knew him well, and had no fear in asking him any
question I chose, and I looked forward to the next evening as to a grand
festival.

When we came in from dinner, I drew the window-shade, and saw that it
was snowing fiercely.

"Perhaps he will not come," I said, turning to my grandfather
disconsol