To introduce Joseline to the home of her forefathers was a task after Lord Mulgrave’s own heart; he was a man of cultured tastes and a well-known collector. He had a fine show of old arms, old ivories, old cloisonné, some exquisite French cabinets, and the finest snuff-boxes in England. By degrees he piloted Joseline through a suite of reception-rooms, and showed her many rare and costly objects among his heirlooms and his treasures; he was eloquent over his relics of the Armada, his Sèvres cups, “Mary and William” tankards, and was conscious of a sharp spasm of disappointment, when he found that the object that claimed his companion’s admiration and awe was the stuffed brown bear, which held a cigar-tray in the billiard-room! In short, as far as knowledge and appreciation of art went, Joseline might be a child of six. In the red saloon, a room panelled with damask and pictures, she came to a halt before a fine painting of the Madonna and Child, which Lord Mulgrave had picked up at a curiosity-shop in Pisa; it was said to be a Raphael--at any rate, it was of his school. Joseline gazed for some time, and then crossed herself devoutly. “Oh, it is real beautiful,” she remarked at last--“a deal better than the one in Glenveigh Chapel. I wish they had the likes of it. An’ wouldn’t Father Daly be the proud man!” She paused, coloured, and exclaimed, “Oh, I was forgettin’.” “Forgetting what?” inquired her father. “I’m afraid my being a Catholic is a shockin’ upset; but I tell ye, for ye bid to know”--and she surveyed him with solemn eyes--“I’ll never change my religion.” “No, of course not, my dear. It is true that our family have always been Church of England; but I am thankful that you have a religion; it is an uncommon possession in these days.” Was he thinking of his wife, with her Sunday card-parties? As they talked on many subjects, they were moving slowly down the saloon, and at the end, he came to a standstill. Lord Mulgrave had instinctively felt that there was no use in exhibiting the priceless Vandycks, Romneys, and Hoppners, to this uneducated child as yet; but here was a modern picture, bound to enchain her. Joseline looked up at a full-length painting of a lovely girl, robed in a filmy white gown, with delicate touches of blue. The portrait had been taken at a happy moment, and seemed to exhale the very breath of life and youth. No need to explain. Instinctively she was aware that she was face to face with her mother. The picture was a gem, the “chef d’œuvre” of a French artist who, like his model, had died young. The face was so vivid, so full of animation, it seemed to stand out from the canvas, as if alive. A truly speaking likeness! Joseline recognised her own shade of hair, the colour of her eyes, and brows--her very mouth--she was looking at herself as in a mirror. “You are like her,” said Lord Mulgrave, in a low voice. “You can see it?”