was not large for the rank of the owner, but
commodious, with no pretence to architectural beauty--dark-red brick, a
century and a half old--irregular; jutting forth here, receding there,
so as to produce that depth of light and shadow which lends a certain
picturesque charm even to the least ornate buildings--a charm to
which the Gothic architecture owes half its beauty. Jessamine,
roses, wooodbine, ivy, trained up the angles and between the windows.
Altogether the house had that air of HOME which had been wanting to the
regal formality of Moutfort Court. One of the windows, raised above
the ground by a short winding stair, stood open. Lights had just been
brought into the room within, and Lionel's eye was caught by the gleam.
Lady Montfort turned up the stair, and Lionel followed her into the
apartment. A harp stood at one corner--not far from it a piano
and music-stand. On one of the tables there were the implements of
drawing--a sketch in water-colours half finished.

"Our work-room," said Lady Montfort, with a warm cheerful smile, and yet
Lionel could see that tears were in her eyes--"mine and my dear pupil's.
Yes, that harp is hers. Is he still fond of music--I mean Mr. Darrell?"

"Yes, though he does not care for it in crowds; but he can listen for
hours to Fairthorn's flute. You remember Mr. Fairthorn?"

"Ay, I remember him," answered Lady Montfort softly. "Mr. Darrell then
likes his music, still?"

Lionel here uttered an exclamation of more than surprise. He had turned
to examine the water-colour sketch--a rustic inn, a honeysuckle arbour,
a river in front; a boat yonder--just begun.

"I know the spot!" he cried. "Did you make the sketch of it?"

"I? no; it is hers--my pupil's--my adopted child's." Lionel's dark eyes
turned to Lady Montfort's wistfully, inquiringly; they asked what his
lips could not presume to ask. "Your adopted child--what is she?--who?"

As if answering to the eyes, Lady Montfort said: "Wait here a moment; I
will go for her."

She left him, descended the stairs into the garden, joined George Morley
and his companion; took aside the former, whispered him, then drawing
the arm of the latter within her own, led her back into the room, while
George Morley remained in the garden, throwing himself on a bench, and
gazing on the stars as they now came forth, fast and frequent, though
one by one.

CHAPTER XXV.

"Quem Fors dierum cunque dabit
Lucro appone."--HORA