“On a dim autumnal evening, when Mrs Ann, with fading sight but undiminished feeling, was poring over some of Lady Russel’s letters in manuscript, and, to relieve her eyes, sometimes glanced on the manuscript of Nelson’s Fasts and Festivals of the Church of England,--it was announced to her that a Cavalier (the servants well knew the charm of that name to the ear of the ancient loyalist) had crossed the draw-bridge, entered the hall, and was advancing to the apartment where she sat. “Let him be admitted,” was her answer, and rising from her chair, which was so lofty and so spacious, that as she lifted herself from it to greet the stranger with a courtly reception, her form appeared like a spectre rising from an ancient monument,--she stood facing the entrance--at that entrance appeared John Sandal. She bent forwards for a moment, but her eyes, bright and piercing, still recognized him in a moment. “Back!--back!”--exclaimed the stately ancestress, waving him off with her withered hand--“Back!--profane not this floor with another step!”--“Hear me, madam, for one moment--suffer me to address you, even on my knees--I pay the homage to your rank and relationship--misunderstand it not as an acknowledgement of guilt on my part!” “Mrs Ann’s features at this action underwent a slight contraction--a short spasmodic affection. “Rise, Sir--rise,” she said--“and say what you have to say--but utter it, Sir, at the door whose threshold you are unworthy to tread.” “John Sandal rose from his knees, and pointed instinctively as he rose to the portrait of Sir Roger Mortimer, to whom he bore a striking resemblance. Mrs Ann acknowledged the appeal--she advanced a few steps on the oaken floor--she stood erect for a moment, and then, pointing with a dignity of action which no pencil could embody to the portrait, seemed to consider her attitude as a valid and eloquent answer--it said--he to whose resemblance you point, and claim protection from, never like you dishonoured these walls by an act of baseness--of heartless treachery! Betrayer!--look to his portrait! Her expression had in it something of the sublime--the next moment a strong spasm contracted her features--she attempted to speak, but her lips no longer obeyed her--she seemed to speak, but was not heard even by herself. She stood for a moment before John Sandal in that rigid immoveable attitude that says, “Advance not another step at your peril--insult not the portraits of your ancestors--insult not their living representative, by another step of intrusion!” As she spoke thus, (for her attitude spoke), a stronger spasm contracted her features. She attempted to move--the same rigid constriction extended to her limbs; and, waving her prohibitory arm still, as if in defiance at once of the approach of death and of her rejected kinsman, she dropt at his feet. * * * * * *