and had not descended so low as to a
country gentleman's house like Selwick Hall. The great parlour was a
large room with a floor of polished oak, hung with tapestry in which the
prevailing colour was red, and the chairs held cushions of red velvet.
On the tiled hearth a comfortable fire burned softly away, and in a
large chair of dark carved wood beside it, propped up with cushions of
red velvet, sat an old lady of seventy-six, looking the very picture of
comfort and sweetness. And though "her golden hairs time had to silver
turned," and she was now a widow indeed, and desolate, some of my
readers may recognise their old friend Lettice Eden. Her eyes, though a
little sunken, kept their clear blue, and her complexion was still fair
and peach-like, with a soft, faint rose-colour, like a painting on
china. She had a loving smile for every one, and a gentle, soothing
voice, which the children said half cured the little troubles wherein
they always ran to Grandmother. Aunt Faith was usually too deep in her
own troubles, and Aunt Edith, though always kind, was also invariably
busy; while there was considerable hesitation in making an appeal to
Aunt Temperance, who might answer it with a box on the ear instead of a
comforting kiss, or at best had an awkward way of turning the tables on
the plaintiff by making him out to be the offender instead of the
defendant. But nobody ever hesitated to appeal to Grandmother, whose
very rebukes fell as softly as rose-leaves, and were always so justly
deserved that they had twice the effect of those which came from
perpetual fault-finders. Aubrey had grown up in this atmosphere, but it
was much newer to his cousin Lettice, the daughter of Dudley Murthwaite
and Helen Louvaine. Until she was twelve years old, Lettice had dwelt
with her father at Skiddaw Force, her Aunt Temperance having supplied
the place of the dead mother who had faded from her child's memory, for
Helen passed away when her daughter was only two years old. It had not
been exactly Dudley's choice which had placed Temperance in that
position. He would have preferred his wife's youngest sister, Edith, to
fill the vacant place of mother to his little girl; but Edith firmly
though kindly declined to make her home away from Selwick Hall. The
natural explanation of course was that she, being the only unmarried
daughter of the house, preferred to remain with her parents. Edith said
so, and all her friends repeated it, and