"My name is Henry Esmond," said the lad, looking up at her in a sort
of delight and wonder, for she had come upon him as a Dea certe, and
appeared the most charming object he had ever looked on. Her golden hair
was shining in the gold of the sun; her complexion was of a dazzling
bloom; her lips smiling, and her eyes beaming with a kindness which made
Harry Esmond's heart to beat with surprise.

"His name is Henry Esmond, sure enough, my lady," says Mrs. Worksop,
the housekeeper (an old tyrant whom Henry Esmond plagued more than he
hated), and the old gentlewoman looked significantly towards the late
lord's picture, as it now is in the family, noble and severe-looking,
with his hand on his sword, and his order on his cloak, which he had
from the Emperor during the war on the Danube against the Turk.

Seeing the great and undeniable likeness between this portrait and the
lad, the new Viscountess, who had still hold of the boy's hand as she
looked at the picture, blushed and dropped the hand quickly, and walked
down the gallery, followed by Mrs. Worksop.

When the lady came back, Harry Esmond stood exactly in the same spot,
and with his hand as it had fallen when he dropped it on his black coat.

Her heart melted, I suppose (indeed she hath since owned as much), at
the notion that she should do anything unkind to any mortal, great or
small; for, when she returned, she had sent away the housekeeper upon an
errand by the door at the farther end of the gallery; and, coming back
to the lad, with a look of infinite pity and tenderness in her eyes, she
took his hand again, placing her other fair hand on his head, and saying
some words to him, which were so kind, and said in a voice so sweet,