“Jacob,” she said, “get me the keys of the house from Mrs. Horton.” Jacob vanished, and reappeared with a huge bunch of keys. She took them. “Thank you. They should not be allowed to get quite rusty, Jacob.” “Please, Miss, Mrs. Horton desired me to say, she would have seen to them, if she had known you wanted them.” “Oh! never mind. Just tell my maid to bring me an old pair of gloves.” Jacob went; and the maid came with the required armour. “Now, Mr. Sutherland. Jane, you will come with us. No, you need not take the keys. I will find those I want as we go.” She unlocked a door in the corner of the hall, which Hugh had never seen open. Passing through a long low passage, they came to a spiral staircase of stone, up which they went, arriving at another wide hall, very dusty, but in perfect repair. Hugh asked if there was not some communication between this hall and the great oak staircase. “Yes,” answered Euphra; “but this is the more direct way.” As she said this, he felt somehow as if she cast on him one of her keenest glances; but the place was very dusky, and he stood in a spot where the light fell upon him from an opening in a shutter, while she stood in deep shadow. “Jane, open that shutter.” The girl obeyed; and the entering light revealed the walls covered with paintings, many of them apparently of no value, yet adding much to the effect of the place. Seeing that Hugh was at once attracted by the pictures, Euphra said: “Perhaps you would like to see the picture gallery first?” Hugh assented. Euphra chose key after key, and opened door after door, till they came into a long gallery, well lighted from each end. The windows were soon opened. “Mr. Arnold is very proud of his pictures, especially of his family portraits; but he is content with knowing he has them, and never visits them except to show them; or perhaps once or twice a year, when something or other keeps him at home for a day, without anything particular to do.” In glancing over the portraits, some of them by famous masters, Hugh’s eyes were arrested by a blonde beauty in the dress of the time of Charles II. There was such a reality of self-willed boldness as well as something worse in her face, that, though arrested by the picture, Hugh felt ashamed of looking at it in the presence of Euphra and her maid. The pictured woman almost put him out of countenance, and yet at the same time fascinated him. Dragging his eyes from it, he saw that Jane had turned her back upon it, while Euphra regarded it steadily. “Open that opposite window, Jane,” said she; “there is not light enough on this portrait.”