rapid
fairy suddenness of motion, threw herself on her knees, and clasped Sir
Christopher's knee. He bent down, stroked her cheek and smiled.

'Caterina, that is foolish,' said Lady Cheverel. 'I wish you would leave
off those stage-players' antics.'

She jumped up, arranged the music on the harpsichord, and then, seeing
the Baronet and his lady seated at picquet, quietly glided out of the
room.

Captain Wybrow had been leaning near the harpsichord during the singing,
and the chaplain had thrown himself on a sofa at the end of the room.
They both now took up a book. Mr. Gilfil chose the last number of the
'Gentleman's Magazine'; Captain Wybrow, stretched on an ottoman near the
door, opened 'Faublas'; and there was perfect silence in the room which,
ten minutes before, was vibrating to the passionate tones of Caterina.

She had made her way along the cloistered passages, now lighted here and
there by a small oil-lamp, to the grand-staircase, which led directly to
a gallery running along the whole eastern side of the building, where it
was her habit to walk when she wished to be alone. The bright moonlight
was streaming through the windows, throwing into strange light and shadow
the heterogeneous objects that lined the long walls Greek statues and
busts of Roman emperors; low cabinets filled with curiosities, natural
and antiquarian; tropical birds and huge horns of beasts; Hindoo gods and
strange shells; swords and daggers, and bits of chain-armour; Roman lamps
and tiny models of Greek temples; and, above all these, queer old family
portraits--of little boys and girls, once the hope of the Cheverels, with
close-shaven heads imprisoned in stiff ruffs--of faded, pink-faced
ladies, with rudimentary features and highly-developed head-dresses--of
gallant gentlemen, with high hips, high shoulders, and red pointed
beards.

Here, on rainy days, Sir Christopher and his lady took their promenade,
and here billiards were played; but, in the evening, it was forsaken by
all except Caterina--and, sometimes, one other person.

She paced up and down in the moonlight, her pale face and thin
white-robed form making her look like the ghost of some former Lady
Cheverel come to revisit the glimpses of the moon.

By-and-by she paused opposite the broad window above the portico, and
looked out on the long vista of turf and trees now stretching chill and
saddened in the moonlight.

Suddenly a breath of warmth and roses seemed to float t