'It is a Madonna,' she said, lowering her voice. 'A stiff old-
fashioned one, in beautiful, bright, clear colouring. The Child is
reaching out to embrace a little cross, and his Mother holds him
towards it with such a sad but such a holy face, as if she foreboded
all, and was ready to bear it.'

'Ah! that Ghirlandajo?'

'That is the name!' cried Violet, enchanted. 'Have you seen it?'

'I saw Lord St. Erme buy it.'

'Do you know Lord St. Erme?' said Violet, rather awe-struck.

'I used to meet him in Italy.'

'We wish so much that he would come home. We do so want to see a
poet.'

John smiled. 'Is he never at home?'

'O, no, he has never been at Wrangerton since his father died, twelve
years ago. He does not like the place, so he only comes to London when
he is in England, and papa goes up to meet him on business, but he is
too poetical to attend to it.'

'I should guess that.'

'I have done wrong, said Violet, checking herself; 'I should not have