a very lightly-clad Magdalen, who seemed endeavoring to
make up for the deficiency of her costume by draping across her bosom
the voluptuous masses of her golden hair.

"I think a Correggio," said Cashel, confused at the sudden artifice;
"but who has the catalogue?--oh, Sir Andrew; tell us about number
fifty-eight."

"Fefty-eight, fefty-eight?" mumbled Sir Andrew a number of times to
himself, and then, having found the number, he approached the picture
and surveyed it attentively.

"Well, sir, what is it called?" said Olivia.

"It's vara singular," said Sir Andrew, still gazing at the canvas, "but
doubtless Correggio knew weel what he was aboot. This," said he, "is a
picture of Sain John the Baaptist in a raiment of caamel's hair."

No sense of propriety was proof against this announcement; a laugh, loud
and general, burst forth, during which Lady Janet, snatching the book
indignantly from his hands, cried,--

"You were looking at sixty-eight, Sir Andrew, not fifty-eight; and you
have made yourself perfectly ridiculous."

"By my saul, I believe so," muttered the old gentleman, in deep anger.
"I 've been looking at 'saxty-eight' ower long already!"

Fortunately, this sarcasm was not heard by her against whom it was
directed, and they who did hear it were fain to suppress their laughter
as well as they were able. The party was now increased by the arrival of
the Dean and his "ancient," Mr. Softly, to the manifest delight of Mrs.
Kennyfeck, who at once exclaimed,--

"Ah, we shall now hear something really instructive."

[Illustration: 288]

The erudite churchman, after a very abrupt notice of the company,
started at speed without losing a moment.

His attention being caught by some curious tableaux of the interior
of the great Pyramid, he immediately commenced an explanation of the
various figures, the costumes and weapons, which he said were all
masonic, showing that Pharaoh wore an apron exactly like the Duke of
Sussex, and that every emblem of the "arch" was to be found among the
great of Ancient Egypt.

While thus employed, Mr. Howie, seated in a corner, was busily sketching
the whole party for an illustration to his new book on Ireland, and once
more Cashel and his companion found themselves, of course by the merest
accident, standing opposite the same picture in a little boudoir off
the large gallery. The subject was a scene from Faust, where Marguerite,
leaning on her lover's arm, is walking in a ga