favorable impression of the place from the manner of your visit, let us return there."
By this time the storm had ceased, except an occasional subdued rumble in the distance. He led the way in silence to the marble chamber, and turned on the subdued radiance of an electric light.
"Here," said he, "are the ashes of a hundred and twenty generations. We call it the 'Guest-Chamber;' because we enter the house as the guests of our parents, and finally remain here as the guests of our children.
"Each of these urns contains all that remains of a family,—husband and wife, and unmarried children. An occasional second son may be absent, having made himself a home elsewhere; and, of course, all the married daughters of the house, who repose in the guest-chambers of the families into which they married."
I gazed around me with awe. Never had human existence seemed to me so transitory. Yet here the aspect of death was nothing horrible, but something inexpressibly solemn. Near the centre of the floor stood a marble table. Under it was the safe in which were preserved the records of the family, and those portraits already referred to. On the table lay a strongly bound volume.
"With the exception of the last three," continued my host, "all these are your ancestors as well as mine. They are so through Osna Diotha, whose father belonged to a line that has frequently intermarried with our house."
On hearing this I began to examine the portraits on the medallions with even greater interest. The medallions each contained the portrait of husband and wife, always executed during life, and usually soon after their
