"Rip van Winkle," repeated Francis. "Who was he? Oh, don't tell me; I think I remember. Wasn't he the old Johnny who slept for a hundred years and woke up to find every one was dead and nobody knew him? He looks rather sad, poor old boy. The chap who did that knew how to draw, anyway." He moved on to the next picture. "Oh, now we come to a gentleman in armour. Jolly uncomfortable that tin hat must have been." "Supposing we sit here for a little while," suggested Philippa. In the centre of the house the corridor widened into a square apartment known as the Guard Room, and tradition stated that the soldiers had here kept watch to ensure the safety of their sovereign, who had occupied a room close by, on the occasion of her famous visit to Bessacre High House. The walls were panelled with oak and hung with portraits of dead-and-gone Heathcotes. A high oriel window threw good light upon the pictures, some of which were dark and dim with age. Francis sat down on the window-seat and looked round him. "Well, I can't call them a good-looking lot," he said, smiling. "What is the name of the man in the corner there in a flowing wig, Phil? I have forgotten all about them." "Amyas Heathcote," read the girl. "He may not be good-looking, but he had a pretty taste in lace if one may judge by his ruffles." "And a pretty taste in wives," said the doctor lightly, pointing to the picture hanging next. It represented a winsome dark-eyed woman in a brocaded frock, wearing a muslin cap over her powdered hair. "I think she is beautiful," exclaimed Philippa. "You wait, my darling, until your portrait hangs here," said Francis quickly. "All the other Heathcote wives will be put into the shade then." "He had a pretty taste in wine too," interrupted the doctor gruffly, "if one may judge by his complexion. I don't know anything of the gentleman, but I'll take my oath he died of apoplexy--unless the leeches killed him first with an over-dose of blood-letting. It seems to have been a playful habit of those days." "Talking of leeches," said Philippa quite composedly, "reminds me of rather a good story I heard the other day. Only I'm speaking of the animals, not the doctors. A friend of mine told me that a few years ago her mother sent a linseed poultice and some leeches in a jar to a man in the village who was ill, and the doctor had ordered them to be applied. Some days later she visited the cottage and asked if the remedies had done any good. 'Well,' said his wife, 'he did enjoy the pudding, but try as he would he couldn't swallow them little fishes.'"