“There are no rooms in this house, except, of course, poor Dick’s, which you may not ransack as much as you like.” “Thank you,” said Chris, as she ran to a handsome inlaid cabinet, with a locked cupboard in the centre; “I’m going to take you at your word, and begin here.” She opened the carved doors, and found a collection of rare coins, which excited in her only a languid interest. Then she examined the contents of a pair of engraved caskets which stood on a side table. Lastly, the shelves of a locked cupboard under a rosewood book-case engaged her attention. Here she found something more attractive to her frivolous mind. Hidden away at the back of the bottom shelf was an old cardboard box, containing a miscellaneous collection of portraits, pencil-sketches, faded daguerreotypes, and a few miniatures on ivory. One of these last attracted her at once in a very strong degree. It was the portrait of a young man, fair, clean-shaven and strikingly handsome, with features slightly aquiline, blue eyes, and an expression which seemed to Chris to denote sweet temper and refinement in equal degrees. She was a long way from her two companions when she discovered the portrait; for the bookcase under which the cupboard was occupied a remote corner of the back drawing-room, while her mother and Mr. Bradfield were sitting by the fire in the front room. She sat so long quietly looking at the miniature, that Mr. Bradfield’s attention was attracted. “Our flibbertigibbet has grown very quiet,” said he at last. “I wonder what mischief she is up to!” As he spoke, he rose softly from his chair, walked on tip-toe to the other end of the room, and peeped round the partition, part of which still remained between the front and the back room. Chris saw him, and started. “We’ve caught her in the very act, Mrs. Abercarne!” he cried. “Guilt on every feature!” Indeed, Chris had blushed a little, and thrust the portrait quickly back on the shelf. “I was only looking at a picture,” she explained quickly. And the next moment, seized by an idea, she snatched up the miniature and held it towards Mr. Bradfield. “It looks like a portrait,” said she. “Do you know who it is?” As she held up the picture, she saw a change in Mr. Bradfield’s face. It was too dark in this back room to see whether he lost colour; but an expression of what was certainly annoyance, mingled with something that looked like terror, passed over his face. It was gone in a moment, and he answered her calmly enough. “No,” said he, “I don’t know who he is. I daresay I bought it in a collection of miniatures.” Chris turned it over in her hand. “Oh! here’s the name, I suppose,” she said; “‘Gilbert Wryde, 1847.’” Again, as she glanced up quickly, and rather curiously, she saw the same sort of look for a couple of seconds on Mr. Bradfield’s face. But he answered in a tone just as unmoved as before.