Though comfortable enough in her new surroundings, Dulcie was somewhat changed from the winsome and impulsive Dulcie whom we first described in the sailor's hat and blue serge suit at Revelstoke. Though her keener grief had subsided, anxiety about Florian, who had not another creature in the world to love him but herself, and a natural doubt about her own future had stolen the roundness from her cheeks, and the roseleaf tints too, while her skin in its delicate whiteness had become waxen in aspect, and the coils of her red golden hair seemed almost too heavy for her shapely head and slender neck. But she was far from idle. She had 'my lady's' lap-dog, a snarling little brute whose teeth filled her with terror, to feed and comb daily; she had much 'lovely china' to dust; a wardrobe to attend to, and rich laces to darn; she had notes innumerable to write; and be always smiling and lively as well as useful when her heart was full of dull pain and despondency concerning the unfortunate Florian, which at night especially put her in a species of fever, and made her turn and toss restlessly on her pillow, and start from sleep with a little cry of terror as she flung out her arms as if to ward off the frightful thoughts of what might be happening, or had happened already, so far, far away. And all this was the harder to bear because she was then without a friend or confidant with whom she could share the burden of her secret sorrow. She had been some time at Cravengowan before she discovered in its place of honour the portrait of young Lennard Melfort, which had been so long relegated to a lumber-attic, and its resemblance to 'Major MacIan,' even in his elder years, startled and amazed her; moreover, it was still more wonderful that it so closely resembled Florian, whom all at Revelstoke were astounded to hear was only the Major's nephew, and not his son, while Shafto, she saw, bore no likeness to the picture at all. She was never weary of looking at it, and asking questions of Finella about Lennard, which that young lady was unable to answer, as that which had happened to him occurred long before she was born. As for Shafto, he never dared to look at this work of art. Though the portrait of a young man, and his last memory of the Major was that of a prematurely old one, the likeness between the two was marvellous; and its deep, thoughtful eyes seemed to follow, to haunt, and to menace him. He loathed it; and though one of the best efforts of Sir Daniel Macnee, the President of the Royal Scottish Academy, he would fain, if he could, have found some plan for its destruction. He avoided, however, as much as possible, the apartment in which it hung. To his annoyance, one morning, he found Dulcie radiant with joy, and an ugly word hovered on his lips when he discovered the cause thereof.