library and its entrancing folios and quartos.
Peggy had, one rainy day, proposed to "see if there wasn't a garret or
some place where they could have some fun." But Margaret, as she now
remembered with a pang, had just discovered the "Hakluyt Chronicles,"
and was conscious of nothing in the world save the volume before her,
and the longing wish for her father to enjoy it with her.

"We will go this very afternoon!" she cried, with animation. "Is it
unlocked? May we roam about wherever we like, Aunt Faith? It sounds
like Bluebeard! Are there no doors that we may not open?"

"None among those that you will see there," said Mrs. Cheriton. And
Margaret fancied that she looked grave for a moment. "You will find more
trunks there," she added quickly, "full of old trumpery, less valuable
than these dresses, and which you may like to amuse yourselves with.
Here are the keys of some of them--the wig trunk, the military trunk;
yes, I think you may be sure of an afternoon's amusement if you are as
fond of dressing up as I was at your age. Now we must say good-bye, my
dear children; Janet is shaking her head at me, and it is true that I
must not talk too long."

She kissed them all affectionately, and they sped away, Margaret only
lingering to look back with one parting glance at the beautiful old
figure in its white chair.

"The garret! the garret!" cried Rita. "Hurrah!" shouted Peggy. And they
flew up the stairs like swallows.

CHAPTER VII.

THE GARRET.

On the wide landing of the second story, the girls paused to draw breath
and look about them. The long gallery ran around three sides of the
house, with the stairs forming the fourth. It was hung with pictures,
save where two or three doors broke the wall-space. Singular pictures
they were, mostly family portraits, it was evident. Some of them were
very good, though the gems of the collection, the Copleys and Stuarts,
and the precious Sir Joshua Reynolds, were in the drawing-rooms below.
The girls ran from one to the other, and great was their delight to
recognise here and there one of the very gowns they had been admiring in
the Family Chest.

"Here is Henrietta Montfort, in the sea-green cloak!" cried Margaret.
"Look, girls, what a haughty, disagreeable face; I don't wonder her
family trembled before her."

"And here--oh, here is Hugo!" cried Peggy; "black velvet, she said. Look
here, Margaret!"

The portrait was that of a man in middle life, handsomely dr