‘True, mademoiselle. It was granted to be borne by my ancestor, Godefroi de Nesselrode, and his descendants, by one of the first Ducs de Nemours. The Duc and De Nesselrode were riding, unattended and unarmed, when an assassin made an attempt upon the life of the former. His first shot, however, failed; and, before he had time to fire a second time, my ancestor had leapt from his horse and flown at his throat, never leaving hold until he had strangled him where he lay. As a wolf will invariably fly at the throat of a man, if it is possible to do so, his princely master, the Duc de Nemours, was pleased to command that that animal should be carried as a crest upon the helmets of the De Nesselrodes from that time forward.’ ‘It was a very brave thing for your ancestor to do,’ said Tessie. ‘He could hardly have done anything else,’ replied the Baron, quietly. ‘But would it be agreeable to you now, mesdemoiselles, to try the organ we have spoken of?’ ‘Yes, yes; let us return to the house,’ interposed Mr. Lovett. ‘It is too hot to stand about, so early in the afternoon.’ The fact is, the old gentleman had made an excellent luncheon, and began to miss the nap which he invariably took at that hour of the day. So, his will being law to all of us, we retraced our footsteps to the château, and were introduced to what had originally been its private chapel. But what a desecration appeared to have taken place there! The altar was disrobed and bare, and what ornaments it had possessed had vanished. Over it hung a crucifix, covered with a layer of dust an inch in thickness. On one side was erected a little altar to the Virgin. Her statue still rested there, on a cloth of what had been white silk, now brown with dirt and age, with the yellow lace hanging from it in tattered fragments. A dusty wreath of artificial flowers stood before it, and a little lamp which still held the rancid remains of oil. A row of oak benches was on either side the altar; but, beyond what I have mentioned, and a few votive offerings of little value which hung against the wall, all traces of this place having been one of prayer had disappeared. As we entered it, Ange gave vent to an exclamation of dismay. ‘Oh, monsieur! why do you not have this chapel properly cleaned, and kept in order——?’ But there the child stopped, remembering his poverty. ‘To what intent, mademoiselle?’ he asked her. ‘Oh, because—because—it _has_ been so beautiful!’ she replied. ‘Papa, what would we not give to have this chapel carried down into St. Pucelle, and to use it for our services, instead of the schoolroom? Does it not seem ten thousand pities that it should be wasted like this?’ Mr. Lovett had already ensconced himself on the corner of one of the benches, and put two cushions at his back, preparatory to passing into the land of dreams.