proportion to my perceiving in myself nothing in common with you."
"Yes," said Brandon, "you have in common with me, a love for old stories of Sir Hugo, and Sir Rupert, and all the other 'Sirs' of our mouldered and by-gone race. So you shall sing me the ballad about Sir John de Brandon, and the dragon he slew in the Holy Land. We will adjourn to the drawing-room, not to disturb your father."
Lucy agreed, took her uncle's arm, repaired to the drawing-room, and, seating herself at the harpsichord sang to an inspiriting, yet somewhat rude air, the family ballad her uncle had demanded.
It would have been amusing to note, in the rigid face of the hardened and habitual man of peace and parchments, a certain enthusiasm which ever and anon crossed his cheek, as the verses of the ballad rested on some allusion to the Knightly House of Brandon, and its old renown. It was an early prejudice, breaking out despite of himself—a flash of character, stricken from the hard
