Mary fluttered out of the room.

CHAPTER XII

_A CURIOUS CONVERSATION_

We each had another cup of tea, and were silent for awhile.

'We must not talk of ghosts now. You are a superstitious little woman, you
know, and you shan't be frightened.'

And now Cousin Monica grew silent again, and looking briskly around the
room, like a lady in search of a subject, her eye rested on a small oval
portrait, graceful, brightly tinted, in the French style, representing
a pretty little boy, with rich golden hair, large soft eyes, delicate
features, and a shy, peculiar expression.

'It is odd; I think I remember that pretty little sketch, very long ago. I
think I was then myself a child, but that is a much older style of dress,
and of wearing the hair, too, than I ever saw. I am just forty-nine now. Oh
dear, yes; that is a good while before I was _born_. What a strange, pretty
little boy! a mysterious little fellow. Is he quite sincere, I wonder? What
rich golden hair! It is very clever--a French artist, I dare say--and who
_is_ that little boy?'

'I never heard. Some one a hundred years ago, I dare say. But there is a
picture down-stairs I am so anxious to ask you about!'

'Oh!' murmured Lady Knollys, still gazing dreamily on the crayon.

'It is the full-length picture of Uncle Silas--I want to ask you about
him.'

At mention of his name, my cousin gave me a look so sudden and odd as to
amount almost to a start.

'Your uncle Silas, dear? It is very odd, I was just thinking of him;' and
she laughed a little.

'Wondering whether that little boy could be he.'

And up jumped active Cousin Monica, with a candle in her hand, upon a
chair, and scrutinised the border of the sketch for a name or a date.

'Maybe on the back?' said she.

And so she unhung it, and there, true enough, not on the back of the
drawing, but of the frame, which was just as good, in pen-and-ink round
Italian letters, hardly distinguishable now from the discoloured wood, we
traced--

'_Silas Aylmer Ruthyn, AEtate_ viii. 15 _May_, 1779.'

'It is very odd I should not have been told or remembered who it was.
I think if I had _ever_ been told I _should_ have remembered it. I do
recollect this picture, though, I am nearly certain. What a singular
child's face!'

And my cousin leaned over it with a candle on each side, and her hand
shading her eyes, as if seeking by aid of these fair and half-formed
lineaments to read an enigma.

The childi