l as he,--and she could act as cicerone! This
one was a De Brecy, one of King John's knights, who married an Atherly.
(She swung herself into a half-sitting posture on the effigy of the
dead knight, composed her straight short skirt over her trim ankles,
and looked up in Peter's dark face.) That would make them some kind of
relations,--wouldn't it? He must come over to Bentley Towers and see the
rest of the De Brecys in the chapel there to-morrow. Perhaps there might
be some he liked better, and who looked more like him. For there was no
one here or at the Grange who resembled him in the least.

He assented to the truth of this with such grave, disarming courtesy,
and yet with such undisguised wonder,--as she appeared to talk with
greater freedom to a stranger than an American girl would,--that she at
once popped off the crusader, and accompanied him somewhat more demurely
around the church. Suddenly she stopped with a slight exclamation.

They had halted before a tablet to the memory of a later Atherly,
an officer of his Majesty's 100th Foot, who was killed at Braddock's
defeat. The tablet was supported on the one side by a weeping Fame,
and on the other by a manacled North American Indian. She stammered and
said: "You see there are other Atherlys who went to America even before
your father," and then stopped with a sense of having made a slip.

A wild and inexplicable resentment against this complacent historical
outrage suddenly took possession of Peter. He knew that his rage was
inconsistent with his usual calm, but he could not help it! His swarthy
cheek glowed, his dark eyes flashed, he almost trembled with excitement
as he hurriedly pointed out to Lady Elfrida that the Indians were
VICTORIOUS in that ill-fated expedition of the British forces, and that
the captive savage was an allegorical lie. So swift and convincing was
his emotion that the young girl, knowing nothing of the subject and
caring less, shared his indignation, followed him with anxious eyes, and
their hands for an instant touched in innocent and generous sympathy.
And then--he knew not how or why--a still more wild and terrible idea
sprang up in his fancy. He knew it was madness, yet for a moment he
could only stand and grapple with it silently and breathlessly. It
was to seize this young and innocent girl, this witness of his
disappointment, this complacent and beautiful type of all they valued
here, and bear her away--a prisoner, a hostage--he k