"How splendid they would look full of blazing logs!" said Cathy. "These
old walls ought to be hung with garlands of holly and mistletoe. It
would just be the place for a Christmas party."

One room especially fascinated me. It was a small chamber half-way up
the stairs, built above the porch, with a large mullioned window from
which one looked out over the garden to the very limit of the horizon.
The chimney-piece was richly carved, and panelled with coats of arms,
but the central panel was occupied by a small oil-painting of a laughing
girl, with lace ruffles and flowered bodice, whose fair hair fell in
loose curls over her neck and shoulders. So lifelike was the portrait,
that for a moment I felt as if the parted red lips were about to speak,
and almost waited for the words, while the bright eyes seemed to look
out from the wall as if they were following us round the room. In the
extreme right-hand corner of the picture was painted the name: "Philippa
Lovell".

"Who is she?" said Cathy, in response to my eager enquiries. "Why, the
Lovells were a very old family who lived here in the time of the civil
wars. Her father was for the King, but her only brother had declared for
Cromwell and the Parliament. They met in battle at Naseby, and both
fell, each fighting bravely for his own opinions. So the girl was the
last of the race. She was a ward of Charles II, and he married her to
one of his favourites, who cared for nothing but her lands and her
money. She was miserable and ill at the London court, and at last she
got leave to return to Cumberland; but it was too late, for she only
came home to die. You can see her monument in the church, next to that
of her father and brother; the Lovell coat of arms hangs over them all,
and the words 'Sic transit gloria mundi'."

So this was the story of my poor little namesake. Her smiles had indeed
soon been changed into tears, and very sad eyes must have looked out
from the mullioned window to the distant sea. I felt as if the room were
still occupied by her memory, and I closed the door almost reverently as
I went out, murmuring to myself those lines from Longfellow:--

"We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates".

CHAPTER XII

THE _IGNACIA_

"These are thy wonders, Lord of power,
Killing and quickening