was a shepherdess, with her taper crook, whose
large, languishing eyes, ripe pouting lips, ready to melt into kisses,
and air of voluptuous abandonment, scarcely suited the innocent
simplicity of her costume. She was portrayed tending a flock of downy
sheep, with azure ribbons round their necks, accompanied by one of those
invaluable little dogs whose length of ear and silkiness of skin evinced
him perfect in his breeding, but whose large-eyed indifference to his
charge proved him to be as much out of character with his situation as
the refined and luxuriant charms of his mistress were out of keeping
with her artless attire. This was Sir Piers's mother, the third wife, a
beautiful woman, answering to the notion of one who had been somewhat of
a flirt in her day. Next to her was a magnificent dame, with the throat
and arm of a Juno, and a superb bust--the bust was then what the bustle
is now--a paramount attraction; whether the modification be an
improvement, we leave to the consideration of the lovers of the
beautiful--this was the dowager. Lastly, there was the lovely and
ill-fated Eleanor. Every gentle grace belonging to this unfortunate lady
had been stamped in undying beauty on the canvas by the hand of Lely,
breathing a spell on the picture, almost as powerful as that which had
dwelt around the exquisite original. Over the high carved mantelpiece
was suspended the portrait of Sir Reginald. It had been painted in
early youth; the features were beautiful, disdainful,--with a fierceness
breaking through the courtly air. The eyes were very fine, black as
midnight, and piercing as those of Caesar Borgia, as seen in Raphael's
wonderful picture in the Borghese Palace at Rome. They seemed to
fascinate the gazer--to rivet his glances--to follow him whithersoever
he went--and to search into his soul, as did the dark orbs of Sir
Reginald in his lifetime. It was the work likewise of Lely, and had all
the fidelity and graceful refinement of that great master; nor was the
haughty countenance of Sir Reginald unworthy the patrician painter.

No portrait of Sir Piers was to be met with. But in lieu thereof,
depending from a pair of buck's horns, hung the worthy knight's stained
scarlet coat--the same in which he had ridden forth, with the intent to
hunt, on the eventful occasion detailed by Peter Bradley,--his velvet
cap, his buck-handled whip, and the residue of his equipment for the
chase. This attire was reviewed with melancholy