He seldom passed through the picture gallery without taking a glance at the long line of portraits, the very contemplation of which seemed to take him back to brighter and more glorious days. He was proud of his ancestors, many of whom had been identified with the history of the country. A miserable sense of depression and loneliness came over him as he contemplated the time-honoured works of art. He thought some of his race looked reprovingly on him out of their dingy frames. At his death there would be an end to the unbroken line of the Ethalwoods. He had no son to inherit the title and estates, which would go to a distant relative, whom he held in utter aborrhence. This thought was perfect agony to him. He turned abruptly away and made for the observatory, and strove to drown his sorrow in the depths of science. In a short time, however, he again sought the laboratory. As he arrived at the door of the picture gallery he was startled by a loud noise, a sort of clatter and crash――so it seemed to him――which reverberated through the whole apartment. He hastened forward, and beheld a cloud of dust. When this had cleared away he was enabled to ascertain the cause of the strange sounds. The portrait of Gervase Lord Ethalwood, with its massive oak frame, had fallen to the floor. The master of Broxbridge was greatly affected. His pale face became a thought paler, and his limbs trembled. A superstitious fear seemed to creep over him. He looked upon the circumstance as an ill omen. Had fate in store for him any greater trial? For awhile he stood motionless and spell-bound, his eyes being all the while riveted on the fallen picture. His ancestor, Gervase Lord Ethalwood, was deemed the most honoured of his race. He had distinguished himself both in the field and in the senate――had enjoyed the confidence of his Sovereign. “This is a most remarkable circumstance――the more so since it happened while I was at the entrance of the picture gallery,” murmured Lord Ethalwood. “Most remarkable――and――and significant.” As he was hesitating how to act he observed at the other end of the gallery the well-known features of Mr. Jakyl, who was advancing in his usual quiet and unobtrusive manner. “Oh, it’s you, Jakyl!” said his lordship, walking up to the picture. “Do you know of the accident?” “I heard a noise, my lord,” returned the butler, “and hastened to ascertain the cause.” “The picture, the likeness of my great ancestor――it has fallen.” They both looked at the object in question. “The rings have given way,” observed Mr. Jakyl, pointing to the rings through which ran the cords which supported it. “Strange, most unaccountable!” ejaculated the nobleman. “Most incomprehensible.” “Well, my lord, it is not so surprising after all,” returned the butler. “The wood is decayed.” “Umph! You had better lift it up and place it against the wall, then get the steps and hang it up in its place.” The butler gave utterance to an expression of surprise.