pistol-shaped handles of silver knives. The mantelpiece reached to the
ceiling, in panelled compartments, with heraldic shields, and supported
by rude stone Caryatides. On the walls were several pictures,--family
portraits, for the names were inscribed on the frames. They varied in
date from the reign of Elizabeth to that of George I. A strong family
likeness pervaded them all,--high features, dark hair, grave aspects,--
save indeed one, a Sir Ralph Haughton Darrell, in a dress that spoke him
of the holiday date of Charles II.,--all knots, lace, and ribbons;
evidently the beau of the race; and he had blue eyes, a blonde peruke, a
careless profligate smile, and looked altogether as devil-me-care,
rakehelly, handsome, good-for-nought, as ever swore at a drawer, beat a
watchman, charmed a lady, terrified a husband, and hummed a song as he
pinked his man.

Lionel was still gazing upon the effigies of this airy cavalier when the
door behind him opened very noiselessly, and a man of imposing presence
stood on the threshold,--stood so still, and the carved mouldings of the
doorway so shadowed, and as it were cased round his figure, that Lionel,
on turning quickly, might have mistaken him for a portrait brought into
bold relief from its frame by a sudden fall of light. We hear it,
indeed, familiarly said that such a one is like an old picture. Never
could it be more appositely said than of the face on which the young
visitor gazed, much startled and somewhat awed. Not such as inferior
limners had painted in the portraits there, though it had something in
common with those family lineaments, but such as might have looked
tranquil power out of the canvas of Titian.

The man stepped forward, and the illusion passed. "I thank you," he
said, holding out his hand, "for taking me at my word, and answering me
thus in person." He paused a moment, surveying Lionel's countenance with