Richard pushed the door of the picture-gallery wide, and stood on the threshold for a moment, a look of resolve on his stern young face. These—his best loved—would understand what it cost him to leave them. The older faces seemed to turn to him, expectant. Through the stained glass windows with their emblazoned coat-of-arms, a steady stream of moonlight flowed triumphantly, taking the colour of the glass it came through—now rose and now pallid green. Not less steadfast the light in the painted eyes of some of the men he looked upon, martyrs in their way—men who had fought and died for a Cause—whose purposes, like his, nor tears, nor smiles, nor force could turn. With his hands clenched very firmly and an uncomfortable tightening of the throat, Richard looked straight and long at the portrait of his ancestress to-night, and thought again, as he had often thought before, how strange it was that God did not make mothers in a mould like this. And in that moment he committed every line of the portrait to memory, never to be erased—the oval face, and soft hair, a dark curtain, banded over the low white forehead; the grave eyes that pursued you to the door, eyes painted with a hint of tears, a favourite trick in a certain school of art; the turn of the proud head, the white neck visible beneath a veil of drapery. The moonlight fell upon all lovingly. One little beam of light travelled upwards and tried to linger in the shadows of the misty eyes. [Illustration: "GRAVE EYES THAT PURSUED YOU TO THE DOOR"] Richard turned, his heart throbbing convulsively. Was that a footfall? He crept for shelter to the picture of a malignant-looking gentleman of the tenth century, whose full-length portrait moved on pulleys, and which was now drawn out to an acute angle, half across the gallery, as Dan started forward. Both waited in silence for some time, but the sound—if sound it were—was light at best, and did not return. Richard came back to Margaret Cunningham. Sentimentality was childish, the sort of thing a future empire-builder must infallibly renounce. "Good-bye," Richard said gravely; "Dan and I shan’t be here again for ever so long. We’re going away—both of us—but we mean some day to come back. I’m growing up, you see; I’m going to make my name, and a big future, and keep Glune." In spite of the brave words he walked away from the picture drearily enough, fancying that Margaret’s eyes were extraordinarily misty, because his own were drowned in tears.... He shivered. How cold it had become! He must have been there far longer than he intended; his bare feet on the parquet floor were cold as death. He whistled to Dan, who had, contrary to his usual custom, scampered away to snuffle anxiously at the door.