"The Gerard Dow," said Chandos, smiling. "It is very valuable, I believe; but I am so covetous, that I do not think I can make up my mind to part with any of them. You must see to their being well packed up, Lockwood; for the least injury to such pictures is fatal. The books also must be taken great care of, especially those in the glazed bookcases." "Ay; but have you got the keys?" asked Lockwood. "Mr. Roberts was asking for them, and says he does not know where they are." "I have them not," answered Chandos; "I never had. My brother has them, most likely." "No," answered Lockwood; "he gave all the keys belonging to the Abbey to Mr. Roberts; and these are not amongst them. But the locks can easily be picked. I have always remarked, when people die, or change their house, the keys go astray. But there's some one tapping at the door; and so I shall go." "Stay, stay," cried Chandos; "I should like to write that note to Roberts at once: I would not have that picture of my mother go into other hands, for all I possess. Come in!" and as he spoke, the door of the room opened, and the head of the gipsey-woman, Sally Stanley, was thrust in. "You are not afraid of a gipsey at this time of night, master gardener?" said the woman with a smile. "I want to see my boy, and give him a kiss; for we are off at day-break to-morrow." Lockwood stared at her, with a sort of scared look, as if her race stood higher in his fears than estimation, and shook his head suspiciously; while Chandos replied: "No, no, Sally, I am not afraid. Go into that room; and the old woman will take you to your boy. He is getting on very well, and knows his alphabet already." The woman nodded her head, well pleased; and, with a glance from the face of Chandos to that of his guest, walked on towards the door of the kitchen. "Now, Chandos," said Lockwood, "let me have the note." The young gentleman raised his finger as a caution to his half-brother not to mention aloud the name which he no longer bore. But the warning was too late; the name was pronounced, and the gipsey-woman heard it. CHAPTER XIII. Time flew rapidly with both Chandos Winslow and Rose Tracy. They knew not what had thus now plumed the great decayer's pinions for him. Chandos thought that, in his own case, it was, that he had assumed one of those old primeval occupations which in patriarchal days made the minutes run so fast that men lived a thousand years as if they had been but seventy. There was nothing for him like the life of a gardener.