Edith was fascinated by this beautiful picture. Who was she? where did she live? what was her fate? were questions hovering on her lips, which she dared not ask of the stately lady on the couch; but, as she stood riveted before it, "O that I had such a friend!" passed through her mind; and, like inexperienced and enthusiastic youth, she thought how fondly she could have loved her, and, if it were necessary, have sacrificed her own life for hers. Lady C---- observed her fixed attention. "That is a portrait of the Lady Ursula," she said, "who built this house, and brought over from England the fruits and flowers of the garden. Alas! they are now much wasted and destroyed." At this moment, the old negro appeared, to say that the dinner was served. They passed into another low room, in the centre of which was a long oaken dining-table, the upper end raised two steps higher than the lower, and the whole was fixed to the floor. At this time, the upper end only was covered with a rich damask cloth, where the lady and her guests took their seats; the other half of the table extending bare beneath them. "In this chair, and at this table, the Lady Ursula was wont to dine with her maidens and serving-men," said Lady C----, as she took her seat in a high-backed, richly-carved chair of oak; "and I have retained the custom, though my serving-men are much reduced;" and she glanced her eye on the trembling old negro. Edith thought how dreary it must be to dine there in solitary state, with no one to speak to except the old negro, and she cast a pitying look around the apartment. A beauffet was in one corner, well filled with massive plate, and the walls were adorned with pictures in needle-work, framed in dark ebony. The picture opposite Edith was much faded and defaced, but it was meant to represent Abraham offering his son Isaac in sacrifice. "It was the work of the Lady Ursula's fingers," said Lady C----, "as every thing else you see here was created by her." "Is she now living?" asked Edith, very innocently. "Alas! no, my dear; hers was a sad fate; but her story is too long for the dining hour;" and as dinner was soon over, they returned to the other apartment. Edith longed for a ramble in the garden. When she returned, the horses were at the door, and she took a reluctant leave, for she had not heard the story of the Lady Ursula. As soon as they had turned their horses' heads outside the iron gate, Edith began her eager questions: "Who was that beautiful woman, the original of the portrait? Where did she live? How did she die? What was her fate?" Her father smiled, and related the following particulars, which deserve another chapter. CHAPTER VII. "Loveliest of lovely things are they On earth, that soonest pass away. Even love, long tried, and cherished long, Becomes more tender, and more strong, At thought of that insatiate grave From which its yearnings cannot save.