was as happy as the youngest there. My love, never sit still and cling to sorrow when a duty comes in your way,—meet it, and it will leave a blessing behind it.
“We explored oak-panneled parlours, and dismal dungeons below the foundation of the present house, which in the reign of Elizabeth had taken the place of the old Norman castle. Finally, the old housekeeper took us the round of the portrait gallery. There were formal, rich-coloured Holbeins, pensive Vandykes, voluptuous Lelys, and charming Sir Joshuas; and, my dear, amongst them, a portrait of Augusta Clinton.
“Elsie, I had been with her when the first sketch was begun, with her when the last touch had been put in. I could not believe my eyes. Yes, this was that portrait, and no other, though strangely had sixty years dimmed and marred its beauties. I stood gazing and gazing, and my heart yearned to her, my old friend,—not, my dear, but that I believed her dead long ago.
“As I stood, the door of a room a little to my left opened. An aged lady came out, stately, and yet bowed; beautiful, but exceeding sad. She passed me; I curteseyed to apologise for our intrusion. She looked hard at me as she bowed in return, and passed on. She recognised me with no clue; whilst I, with that picture before me, knew not my old friend.
“How did it come there? I longed to know, but could not ask. We went down-stairs again. We were preparing to start home, when the same lady advanced towards us from a parlour.
“‘Madam,” she said, ceremoniously, ‘pardon me; but you seem a great admirer of Sir Joshua. There is one in my parlour I do not, in general, show to visitors,—but if you would—it is a master-piece—’
“She broke off, and led the way. I followed. Elsie, my heart beat as it had not done since the day I saw Colonel Redworth in the Camberwell assembly. Something in the stately figure I was following seemed familiar; and yet no wonder I knew her not. She motioned to me to stand on the rug beside her. My eyes were fixed on hers: she raised them, mine followed hers, to the picture above the mantel-piece. Oh, Elsie! it was Colonel Redworth, in a Pompadour coat, laced with silver.
“‘Meg! Meg!’ she sobbed,—she, the strong, proud woman, who had once so mocked my tears, ‘I only had him three years. He was killed by a fall from his horse. They brought him home dead. I broke your heart. This broke mine.’
“She sobbed like a child. I should not wonder if she had never shed a tear for him before.
“‘Meg! Meg!’ she gasped, ‘speak to me. Cannot you forgive me? It is one-and-fifty years—one-and-fifty years,’ she repeated, ‘since I sinned against you. And for eight-and-forty of these years I have been a widow.’
“Elsie, she was my old friend. The friend who