The boy ran up to her, flung his arms round her neck and kissed her. “Have you slept well?” he asked. “I hope you are not tired; there is so much for you to see, and it is so interesting. Are you not very curious to see everything?” “Enough, Murray,” said his uncle; “you shall take Aunt Nancy round the place this afternoon, but just at present she is my property. Run off to your lessons, my lad; I saw your tutor coming up the avenue just now.” “Bother lessons!” said the boy. “Are you not fond of study?” asked Nancy. “No, I hate it; I can’t think what use tiresome books are to anyone.” “Make yourself scarce, chatterbox,” said his uncle again. The boy laughed and ran off. “He is quite a darling,” said Nancy; “what a difference he will make in the house.” “I am glad you have taken to him,” said Rowton; “he is a fine little chap, only you must not let him gossip to you, Nance. The boy has a keen vein of curiosity in him; he knows too much or thinks he does. Now, if you have quite finished breakfast I will take you round.” They began their exploration, going from room to room and from storey to storey. The house was an old one, and as Rowton showed it to his wife he gave her a brief history of it. It had belonged to his family for several generations, but had been so eaten up by one mortgage after another, that Rowton’s own father had declined to live in the old place. “But is it mortgaged now?” asked Nancy. “No,” was the brief response. “And you are rich, very rich, and your father was poor?” “Even so, Nancy,” was the somewhat curt reply. Nancy glanced up at her husband. His eyes looked full into hers; there was a sort of dare devil gleam in them, which she turned away from. “I see,” she said after a pause, “I must not expect you to confide in me.” “Forsooth, no,” he answered; “not on certain topics. We two married under a condition; if there is to be a chance of peace between us, we must keep to it. You must ask me no questions, my darling; I on my part will ask you none. I frankly admit that there are pages in my life which I do not wish you to know anything about, but on the other hand there are fair white pages which only you shall read. Are you not content with me, Nancy?” “Yes, I am,” she answered. “I love you. I trust you too utterly to feel anything but happiness when with you.” They kissed each other, standing side by side in the long picture gallery. Portraits of Rowton’s ancestors adorned the walls. There were Holbeins, Van Dycks, Gainsboroughs, and Raeburns among them—in short, a magnificent collection, which Nancy scarcely knew enough of art to thoroughly appreciate.