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in the moonlight.

      "No, there is a Lady Wyndward, and a daughter – poor girl."

      "Why do you say poor girl?" asked Stella.

      "Because all the wealth of the race would not make her otherwise than an object of tender pity. She is an invalid; you see that window – the one with the light in it?"

      "Yes," Stella said.

      "That is the window of her room; she lies there on a sofa, looking down the valley all the day!"

      CHAPTER II

      "Poor girl!" murmured Stella. There was silence for a moment. "And those three live there all alone?" she said.

      "Not always," he replied, musingly. "Sometimes, not often, the son Leycester comes down. He is Viscount Trevor."

      "The son," said Stella. "And what is he like?"

      The question seemed to set some train of thought in action; the old man relapsed into silence for a few minutes. Then suddenly but gently he rose, and going to the other end of the room, fetched a picture from amongst several standing against the wall, and held it toward her.

      "That is Lord Leycester," he said.

      Stella took the canvas in her hand, and held it to the light, and an exclamation broke involuntarily from her lips.

      "How beautiful he is!"

      The old man took the picture from her, and resting it on his knees, gazed at it musingly.

      "Yes," he said, "it is a grand face; one does not see such a face often."

      Stella leant over the chair and looked at it with a strange feeling of interest and curiosity, such as no simply beautiful picture would have aroused.

      It was not the regularity of the face, with its clear-cut features and its rippling chestnut hair, that, had it been worn by a Wyndward of a hundred years ago, would have fallen in rich curls upon the square, well-formed shoulders. It was not the beauty of the face, but a something indefinable in the carriage of the head and the expression of the full, dark eyes that attracted, almost fascinated, her.

      It was in a voice almost hushed by the indescribable effect produced by the face, that she said:

      "And he is like that?"

      "It is lifelike," he answered. "I, who painted it, should not say it, but it is like him nevertheless – that is Leycester Wyndward. Why did you ask?"

      Stella hesitated.

      "Because – I scarcely know. It is such a strange face, uncle. The eyes – what is it in the eyes that makes me almost unable to look away from them?"

      "The reflection of a man's soul, Stella," he said.

      It was a strange answer, and the girl looked down at the strange face interrogatively.

      "The reflection of a man's soul, Stella. The Wyndwards have always been a wild, reckless, passionate race; here, in this village, they have innumerable legends of the daring deeds of the lords of Wyndward. Murder, rapine, and high-handed tyranny in the olden times, wild license and desperate profligacy in these modern ones; but of all the race this Leycester Wyndward is the wildest and most heedless. Look at him, Stella, you see him here in his loose shooting-jacket, built by Poole; with the diamond pin in his irreproachable scarf, with his hair cut to the regulation length: I see him in armor with his sword upraised to watch the passionate fire of his eyes. There is a picture in the great gallery up yonder of one of the Wyndwards clad just so, in armor of glittering steel, with one foot on the body of a prostrate foe, one hand upraised to strike the death-dealing blow of his battle-ax. Yes, Leycester Wyndward should have lived four centuries back."

      Stella smiled.

      "Has he committed many murders, uncle, burnt down many villages?"

      The old man started and looked up at the exquisite face, with its arch smile beaming in the dark eyes and curving the red, ripe lips, and smiled in response.

      "I was dreaming, Stella; an odd trick of mine. No, men of his stamp are sadly circumscribed nowadays. We have left them no vent for their natures now, excepting the gambling-table, the turf, and – " he roused suddenly. "Yes, it's a beautiful face, Stella, but it belongs to a man who has done more harm in his day than all his forefathers did before him. It is rather a good thing that Wyndward Hall stands so firmly, or else Leycester would have melted it at ecarte and baccarat long ago."

      "Is he so bad then?" murmured Stella.

      Her uncle smiled.

      "Bad is a mild word, Stella; and yet – look at the face again. I have seen it softened by a smile such as might have been worn by an innocent child; I have heard those lips laugh as – as women are supposed to laugh before this world has driven all laughter out of them; and when those eyes smile there is no resisting them for man or woman."

      He stopped suddenly and looked up.

      "I am wandering on like an old mill. Put the picture away, Stella."

      She took it from him and carried it across the room, but stood for a moment silently regarding it by the lamp light. As she did so, a strange fancy made her start and set the picture on the table suddenly. It seemed to her as if the dark eyes had suddenly softened in their intense fixed gaze and smiled at her.

      It was the trick of a warm, imaginative temperament, and it took possession of her so completely that with a swift gesture she laid her hand over the dark eyes and so hid them.

      Then, with a laugh at her own folly, she put the picture against the wall and went back to the window and sat beside the old man.

      "Tell me about your past life, Stella," he said, in a low voice.

      "It seems to me as if you had always been here. You have a quiet way of speaking and moving about, child."

      "I learnt that while papa was ill," she said, simply. "Sometimes he would sit for hours playing softly, and I did not wish to disturb him."

      "I remember, I remember," he murmured. "Stella, the world should have known something of him; he was a born musician."

      "He used to say the same of you, uncle; you should have been a famous artist."

      The old man looked up with a smile.

      "My child, there are many men whom the world knows nothing of – luckily for them. Your father and I were dreamers, both; the world likes men of action. Can you play?"

      She rose and stood for a moment hesitating. In the corner of the room there was a small chamber organ – one of those wonderful instruments which in a small space combine the grand tones of a cathedral organ with the melodious softness of a flute. It was one of the few luxuries which the artist had permitted himself, and he was in the habit of playing snatches of Verdi and Rossini, of Schubert and Mozart, when the fading light compelled him to lay the brush aside.

      Stella went up to it softly and seated herself, and presently began to play. She attempted no difficult fugue or brilliant march, but played a simple Florentine vesper hymn, which she had heard floating from the devout lips of the women kneeling before the altar of the great church in Florence, and presently began to sing it.

      The old man started as the first clear bird-like notes rose softly upon the evening air, and then covering his face with his hands went straight to dreamland.

      The vesper hymn died softly, slowly out, and she rose, but with a gesture of his hand he motioned her to remain at the organ.

      "You have your father's voice, Stella; sing again."

      She sang a pleasant ditty this time, with a touch of pathos in the refrain, and hearing a slight noise as she finished, looked round, and saw the old man rise, and with quivering lips turn toward the door.

      The young girl's sweet voice had brought back the past and its dead too plainly, and he had gone out lest she should see his emotion.

      Stella rose and went to the window, and stood looking into the night. The moonlight was glinting the river in the distance, and falling in great masses upon the lawn at her feet. Half unconsciously she opened the window, and stepping out, found herself in a small

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