"Yet the Earl of
Wistonbury would not part with that little chest for a good round sum, I
warrant ye."

"Pray, explain, my good sir."

"I will. That little, blue-painted chest contained all the worldly
wealth--a few articles of female dress--of the lady whose portrait you
were just now so much admiring, when she became Countess of Wistonbury."

"Why, then," said I, "that is proof that riches, at any rate, had
nothing to do with her promotion to that high rank."

"They certainly had not," replied my aged friend. "But all this you will
learn more particularly in the story which I shall tell you presently.
You will then learn, also, how the little, blue-painted chest comes to
figure in the history of a countess."

Saying this, Mr. Grafton shut the doors of the cabinet, when we left the
apartment, and, in a few minutes after, I found myself in what my worthy
old host called his refectory. This was a snug little room, most
comfortably furnished, and in which I observed a very large quantity of
silver plate,--being, I presumed, the depository of that portion of the
family's wealth. My good old friend now rung his bell, when a female
servant appeared.

"Let's have summut to eat, Betsy," said the old man; and never was order
more promptly or more effectively obeyed.

In an instant the table, which occupied the centre of the floor,
absolutely creaked under the load of good things with which it was
encumbered. The "slice of cold round," I found, was but a _nomme de
guerre_ with the old man, and meant everything in the edible way that
was choice and savoury. To this conclusion I came from seeing the table
before me covered with a great variety of good things, amongst which
rose, conspicuous in the centre, a huge venison pasty. When the
_loading_ of the table was completed, and the servant had retired--

"Now," said the old man, looking at me with a significant smile, and at
the same time drawing a bunch of small keys from his pocket, from which
he carefully singled out one, "since Betsy has done her part so well,
let me see if I can't do mine as creditably."

Saying this, he opened what I thought a sly-looking little cupboard, and
brought forth from its mysterious recess an aristocratic-looking bottle,
sealed with black wax, and whose shoulders were still thickly coated
with sawdust. Handling this venerable bottle with a lightness and
delicacy of touch which a long practice only could have given, and with
a degree of re