In the smoking-room and library, I inspected, with assumed interest, works by the little masters of Holland, and some more admirable examples of the English Eighteenth Century School. Faithful to my promise, I pronounced every one of them to be little gems, unsurpassed by anything in the private collections of America or Europe. We passed into the drawing-room and parlour with the same success. In the latter apartment the Colonel, grasping my arm, said impressively: "Now you will see our great treasure, the Brodie Vandyck, of which Flora has so often told you. I have never lent it for exhibition, for, as you know, we are rather superstitious about it. Sir Joshua Reynolds, in 1780, offered to paint the portraits of the whole family in exchange for the picture. Dr. Waagen describes it in his well-known work. Dr. Bode came from Berlin on purpose to see it some years ago, when he left a certificate (which was scarcely necessary) of its undoubted authenticity. I was so touched by his genuine admiration, that I presented him with a small Dutch picture which he admired in the smoking-room, and thought not unworthy of placing in the Berlin Gallery. I expect you know Dr. Bode." "Not personally," I said, as we stepped into the Long Gallery. It was a delightful panelled room, with oak-beamed ceiling. Between the mullioned windows were old Venetian mirrors and seventeenth-century chairs. At the end, concealed by a rich crimson brocade, hung the Vandyck, the only picture on the walls. It was the Colonel himself who drew aside the curtain which veiled discreetly the famous picture of Sir Rupert Brodie at the age of thirty- two, in the beautiful costume of the period. The face was unusually pallid; it was just the sort of portrait you would expect to walk out of its frame. "You have never seen a finer Vandyck, I am sure," said Mrs. Brodie, anxiously. I examined the work with great care, employing a powerful pocket-glass. There was an awkward pause for about five minutes. "Well, sir," said the Colonel, sternly, "have you nothing to say?" "It is a very interesting and excellent work, though _not_ by Vandyck; it is by Jamieson, his Scotch pupil; the morphic forms . . ."--but I got no further. There was a loud clap of thunder, and Flora fainted away. I was hastening to her side when her father's powerful arm seized my collar. He ran me down the gallery and out by an egress which led into the entrance hall, where some menial opened the massive door. I felt one stinging blow on my face; then, bleeding and helpless, I was kicked down the steps into the snow from which I was picked up, half stunned, by one of the gillies. "Eh, mon, hae ye seen the bogles at Hootawa?" he observed. "It will be very civil of you if you will conduct me to the depot, or the nearest caravanserai," I replied. I never saw Flora again.' * * * * *