uzzing in my ears like an army of infuriated gnats, and
those mighty deeds are so much alike--who is that?"

He left her side abruptly and strode down the gallery to a picture
at the end, and facing the room. It was the full-length, life-size
portrait of a woman with gown and head-dress in the style of the First
Empire. One tiny, pointed foot was slightly extended from beneath
the white gown, and--so perfect had been the skill of the artist--she
looked as if about to step from the canvas to greet her guests.

"That is my grandmother, Sioned, wife of Dafyd-ap-Penrhyn, who, I
would have you know, was one of the most famous diplomatists of his
day," said Weir, who had followed, and stood beside him. "She was the
daughter of the proudest earl in Wales--but I spare you his titles. I
am exactly like her, am I not? It is the most remarkable resemblance
which has ever occurred in the family."

"Yes," said Dartmouth, "you are like her." He plunged his hands into
his pockets and stared at the floor, drawing his brows together. Then
he turned suddenly to Weir. "I have seen that woman before," he said.
"That is the reason why I thought it was your face which was familiar.
I must have seen your grandmother when I was a very young child. I
have forgotten the event, but I could never forget such a face."

"But Harold," said Weir, elevating her brows "It is quite impossible
you could ever have seen my grandmother. She died when papa was a
little boy."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. I have often heard him say he had no memory whatever of
his mother. And grandpapa would never talk with him about her. He was
a terribly severe old man, they say--he died long years before I was
born--but he must have loved my grandmother very much, for he could
not bear to hear her name, and he never came to the castle after her
death."

"It is strange," said Harold, musingly, "but I have surely seen that
face before."

He looked long at the beautiful, life-like picture before him. It
was marvellously like Weir in form and feature and coloring. But the
expression was sad, the eyes were wistful, and the whole face was
that, not of a woman who had lived, but of a woman who knew that out
of her life had passed the power to live did she bow her knee to the
Social Decalogue. As Weir stood, with her bright, eager, girlish face
upheld to the woman out of whose face the girlish light had forever
gone, the resemblance and the contrast were painfully striki