Two full-length female portraits were painted in panel, one on either side of the huge chimney-piece; a circlet of roses carved in oak surrounded each by way of frame. Mr. Long advanced towards the one on the right, and touched the bottom rose; it did not move. He went to the other, and did likewise; the rose revolved in his fingers, and presently, with a creak and a groan, the whole picture slid sideways over the wall, disclosing a narrow flight of wooden stairs. "That is charming," cried I. "That is the 'Mysteries of Udolpho' realized. Where does it lead to, Marmaduke?" There was no answer. Mr. Long and I looked round simultaneously. The lad was ghastly pale. He stared into the dusty, gaping aperture, as though it had been a grave's mouth. "I do not know," he gasped with difficulty. "Not know?" cried my tutor. "Do you mean to say that you have never been told of Jacob's Ladder? The foot of it is in the third bookcase on the left of the library door; the spring is somewhere in the index to "Josephus." It is evident you never attempted to take down that interesting work, which in this case is solid wood. The idea of your not knowing that! And yet Sir Massingberd is so reticent that, with the exception of Gilmore, the butler, I dare say nobody <i>does</i> know it now. It is twenty years ago since I made Phyllis move aside, to the astonishment of Mr. Clint, who came down here on business with poor Sir Wentworth. I dare say nobody has moved her since." "Yes, yes," cried Marmaduke, passionately; "my uncle has moved her. Those visions were not dreams. I see it all now. He wanted to frighten me to death, or to make me mad. When I knew the door was fast locked, he would come and stand by my bedside, and stare at me. Cruel, cruel coward!" "Hush, hush, Marmaduke; this is monstrous--this is impossible!" cried Mr. Long, endeavouring to pacify the boy, who was rocking himself to and fro in an agony of distress and rage. "See how you terrify Peter! Be calm, for Heaven's sake! Your uncle will hear you presently, and you know how he hates to be disturbed." At the mention of his uncle, Marmaduke subdued his cries by a great effort, but he still sobbed and panted, as if for breath. "Oh," moaned he, "consider how I came hither from my dead mother's arms to this man's house--my only living relative, my father's brother--and was taken ill here, a mere child; then this wretch, this demon, my host, my...--Oh, Mr. Long, could you conceive it even of a Heath? He came up to my lonely room by that secret way, and stood without speaking by my pillow, while I lay speechless, powerless, imagining myself to be out of my mind!"