'No, there is not one of them has that noble look,' murmured Ida,
thinking aloud, as she turned to leave the hall.

She found herself face to face with a man, who stood looking at her with
friendly eyes, which in their earnest expression and grave dark brows
curiously resembled the eyes of the picture. Her heart gave one leap, and
then seemed to stand still. There could be only one man in the world with
such a face as that, and in that house. Yes, it was a modified copy of
the portrait--younger, the features less rugged, the skin paler and less
tawny, the expression less intense. Yet even here, despite the friendly
smile, there was a gravity, a look of determination which verged upon
severity.

This time she was not deceived. This was that very Brian Wendover whom
she had thought of in her foolish day-dreams, the first romantic fancy of
her girlhood, last year; and now, in the flush and glory of summer, he
stood before her, smiling at her with eyes which seemed to invite her
friendship.

'I am glad you like my ancestor's portrait,' he said. 'I could not resist
watching you for the last five minutes, as you stood in rapt
contemplation of the hero of our race; so unlike the manner of most
visitors to the Abbey, who give Sir Tristram a casual glance, and go on
to the next feature in the housekeeper's catalogue.'

She stood with burning cheeks, looking downward, like a guilty thing, and
for a moment or two could hardly speak. Then she said, faltering--

'It is a very interesting portrait,' after which brilliant remark she