as he caught that glimpse a strange restless curiosity shot across his mind, and distracted it even from praise of Guy Darrell. Who could that be with George? Was it a relation of Lady Montfort's? The figure was not in mourning; its shape seemed slight and youthful—now it passes by that acacia-tree—standing for a moment apart and distinct from George's shadow, but its own outline dim in the deepening twilight—now it has passed on, lost among the laurels.
Lionel and Lady Montfort now came before the windows of the house, which was not large for the rank of the owner, but commodious, with no pretence to architectural beauty—dark-red brick, a century and a half old—irregular; jutting forth here, receding there, so as to produce that depth of light and shadow which lends a certain picturesque charm even to the least ornate buildings—a charm to which the Gothic architecture owes half its beauty. Jessamine, roses, woodbine, ivy, trained up the angles and between the windows. Altogether the house had that air of home which had been wanting to the regal formality of Montfort Court. One of the windows, raised above the ground by a short winding stair, stood open. Lights had seemingly just been brought into the room within, and Lionel's eye was caught by the gleam.
Lady Montfort turned up the stair, and Lionel followed her into the apartment. A harp stood at one corner—not far from it the piano and music-stand. On one of the tables there were the implements of drawing—a sketch in water-colors half finished.
"Our work-room," said Lady Montfort, with a warm cheerful smile, and yet Lionel could see that tears were in her eyes—"mine and my dear pupil's. Yes, that harp is hers. Is he still fond of music—I mean Mr. Darrell?"
"Yes, though he does not care for it in crowds; but he can listen for hours to Fairthorn's lute. You remember Mr. Fairthorn?"
"Yes, I remember him," answered Lady Montfort, softly. "Mr. Darrell, then, likes his music still?"
Lionel here uttered an exclamation of more than surprise. He had turned to examine the water-color sketch—a rustic inn, a honey-suckle arbor, a river in front, a boat yonder—just begun.
"I know the spot!" he cried. "Did you make the sketch of it?"
"I? no; it is hers—my pupil's—my adopted child's."
Lionel's dark eyes turned to Lady Montfort's wistfully, in
