wife.

"O," said the pretty lady, turning to him in her apron, and with her
brush in her hand, "we are in such in pickle, Munnings and I have been
cleaning these old pictures. Mrs. Julaper says they are the pictures
that came from Cloostedd Hall long ago. They were buried in dust in the
dark room in the clock-tower. Here is such a characteristic one. It has
a long powdered wig--George the First or Second, I don't know which--and
such a combination of colours, and such a face. It seems starting out of
the canvas, and all but speaks. Do look; that is, I mean, Bale, if you
can spare time."

Sir Bale abstractedly drew near, and looked over his wife's shoulder on
the full-length portrait that stood before him; and as he did so a
strange expression for a moment passed over his face.

The picture represented a man of swarthy countenance, with signs of the
bottle glowing through the dark skin; small fierce pig eyes, a rather
flat pendulous nose, and a grim forbidding mouth, with a large wart a
little above it. On the head hung one of those full-bottomed powdered
wigs that look like a cloud of cotton-wadding; a lace cravat was about
his neck; he wore short black-velvet breeches with stockings rolled over
them, a bottle-green coat of cut velvet and a crimson waistcoat with
long flaps; coat and waistcoat both heavily laced with gold. He wore a
sword, and leaned upon a crutch-handled cane, and his figure and aspect
indicated a swollen and gouty state. He could not be far from sixty.
There was uncommon force in this fierce and forbidding-looking portrait.
Lady Mardykes said, "What wonderful dresses they wore! How like a fine
magic-lantern figure he looks! What gorgeous colouring! it looks like
the plumage of a mackaw; and what a claw his hand is! and that huge
broken beak of a nose! Isn't he like a wicked old mackaw?"

"Where did you find that?" asked Sir Bale.

Surprised at his tone, she looked round, and was still more surprised at
his looks.

"I told you, dear Bale, I found them in the clock-tower. I hope I did
right; it was not wrong bringing them here? I ought to have asked. Are
you vexed, Bale?"

"Vexed! not I. I only wish it was in the fire. I must have seen that
picture when I was a child. I hate to look at it. I raved about it once,
when I was ill. I don't know who it is; I don't remember when I saw it.
I wish you'd tell them to burn it."

"It is one of the Feltrams," she answered. "'Sir Hugh Feltram' is on the
fr