“Well, sir, there was one woman in the village who was awfully old and doting, and she evidently knew something about Scarp, for when she heard the name she mumbled out something about ‘awful stories,’ and ‘times of horror,’ and such like things, but I couldn’t make her understand what it was I wanted to know, or keep her up to the point.”

“And have you tried often, Parks? Why do you not try again?”

“She is dead, sir!”

I had felt inclined to laugh at Parks when he was telling me of the old woman. The way in which he gloated over the words “awful stories,” and “times of horror,” was beyond the power of description; it should have been heard and seen to have been properly appreciated. His voice became deep and mysterious, and he almost smacked his lips at the thought of so much pabulum for nightmares. But when he calmly told me that the woman was dead, a sense of blankness, mingled with awe, came upon me. Here, the last link between myself and the mysterious past was broken, never to be mended. All the rich stores of legend and tradition that had arisen from strange conjunctures of circumstances, and from the belief and imagination of long lines of villagers, loyal to their suzerain lord, were lost forever. I felt quite sad and disappointed; and no attempt was made either by Parks or myself to continue the conversation. Mr. Trevor came presently into my room, and having greeted each other warmly we went together to breakfast.

At breakfast Mrs. Trevor asked me what I thought of the girl’s portrait in my bedroom. We had often had discussions as to characters in faces for we were both physiognomists, and she asked the question as if she were really curious to hear my opinion. I told her that I had only seen it for a short time, and so would rather not attempt to give a final opinion without a more careful study; but from what I had seen of it I had been favourably impressed.

“Well, Frank, after breakfast go and look at it again carefully, and then tell me exactly what you think about it.”

After breakfast I did as directed and returned to the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Trevor was still sitting.

“Well, Frank, what is your opinion—mind, correctly. I want it for a particular reason.”

I told her what I thought of the girl’s character; which, if there be any truth in physiognomy, must have been a very fine one.

“Then you like the face?”

I answered—

“It is a great pity that we have none such now-a-days. They seem to have died out with Sir Joshua and Greuze. If I could meet such a girl as I believe the prototype of that portrait to have been I would never be happy till I had made her my wife.”

To my intense astonishment my hostess jumped up and clapped her hands. I asked her why she did it, and she laughed as she replied in a mocking tone imitating my own voice—