She, who had spent her life in the most artistic city of the world, knew that he was a great painter, and, child-woman as she was, wondered why the world permitted him to remain unknown and unnoticed. She had yet to learn that he cared as little for fame as he did for wealth, and to be allowed to live for his art and dream in peace was all he asked from the world in which he lived but in which he took no part. Presently she came back to the window, and stood beside him; he started slightly and put out his hand, and she put her thin white one into it. The moon rose higher in the heavens, and the old man raised his other hand and pointed to it in silence. As he did so, Stella saw glide into the scene--as it was touched by the moonbeams--a large white building rearing above the trees on the hill-top, and she uttered an exclamation of surprise. "What house is that, uncle? I had no idea one was there until this moment!" "That is Wyndward Hall, Stella," he replied, dreamily; "it was hidden by the shadow and the clouds." "What a grand place!" she murmured. "Who lives there uncle?" "The Wyndwards," he answered, in the same musing tone, "the Wyndwards. They have lived there for hundreds of years, Stella. Yes, it is a grand place." "We should call it a palace in Italy, uncle." "It is a palace in England, but we are more modest. They are contented to call it the Hall. An old place and an old race." "Tell me about them," she said, quietly. "Do you know them--are they friends of yours?" "I know them. Yes, they are friends, as far as there be any friendship between a poor painter and the Lord of Wyndward. Yes, we are friends; they call them proud, but they are not too proud to ask James Etheridge to dinner occasionally; and they accuse him of pride because he declines to break the stillness of his life by accepting their hospitality. Look to the left there, Stella. As far as you can see stretch the lands of Wyndward--they run for miles between the hills there." "They have some reason to be proud," she murmured, with a smile. "But I like them because they are kind to you." He nodded. "Yes, the earl would be more than kind, I think----" "The earl?" "Yes, Lord Wyndward, the head of the family; the Lord of Wyndward they call him. They have all been called Lords of Wyndward by the people here, who look up to them as if they were something more than human." "And does he live there alone?" she asked, gazing at the gray stone mansion glistening in the moonlight. "No, there is a Lady Wyndward, and a daughter--poor girl." "Why do you say poor girl?" asked Stella. "Because all the wealth of the race would not make her otherwise than an object of tender pity. She is an invalid; you see that window--the one with the light in it?" "Yes," Stella said. "That is the window of her room; she lies there on a sofa, looking down the valley all the day!" CHAPTER II.