with books and drawings, with a decanter of wine and an exquisite
little goblet of Bohemian glass. The marble mantel was strewn
with ornaments of porcelain and alabaster, and a
beautifully-carved vase of Parian marble stood in the centre,
filled with brilliant flowers. A great mirror reflected back the
room, and beneath it stood a toilet-table, strewn with jewels,
laces, perfume-bottles, and an array of costly little feminine
trifles such as ladies were as fond of two centuries ago as they
are to-day. Evidently it was a lady's chamber; for in a recess
near the window stood a great quaint carved bedstead, with
curtains and snowy lace, looped back with golden arrows and
scarlet ribbons. Some one lay on it, too - at least, Ormiston
thought so; and he went cautiously forward, drew the curtain, and
looked down.

"Great Heaven! what a beautiful face!" was his cry, as he bent
still further down.

"What the plague is the matter?" asked Sir Norman, coming
forward.

"You have said it," said Ormiston, recoiling. "The plague is the
matter. There lies one dead of it!"

Curiosity proving stronger than fear, Sir Norman stepped forward
to look at the corpse. It was a young girl with a face as lovely
as a poet's vision. That face was like snow, now; and, in its
calm, cold majesty, looked as exquisitely perfect as some ancient
Grecian statue. The low, pearly brow, the sweet, beautiful lips,
the delicate oval outline of countenance, were perfect. The eyes