She had made her way along the cloistered passages, now lighted here and there by a small oil-lamp, to the grand-staircase, which led directly to a gallery running along the whole eastern side of the building, where it was her habit to walk when she wished to be alone. The bright moonlight was streaming through the windows, throwing into strange light and shadow the heterogeneous objects that lined the long walls: Greek statues and busts of Roman emperors; low cabinets filled with curiosities, natural and antiquarian; tropical birds and huge horns of beasts; Hindoo gods and strange shells; swords and daggers, and bits of chain-armour; Roman lamps and tiny models of Greek temples; and, above all these, queer old family portraits--of little boys and girls, once the hope of the Cheverels, with close-shaven heads imprisoned in stiff ruffs--of faded, pink-faced ladies, with rudimentary features and highly-developed head-dresses--of gallant gentlemen, with high hips, high shoulders, and red pointed beards. Here, on rainy days, Sir Christopher and his lady took their promenade, and here billiards were played; but, in the evening, it was forsaken by all except Caterina--and, sometimes, one other person. She paced up and down in the moonlight, her pale face and thin white-robed form making her look like the ghost of some former Lady Cheverel come to revisit the glimpses of the moon. By-and-by she paused opposite the broad window above the portico, and looked out on the long vista of turf and trees now stretching chill and saddened in the moonlight. Suddenly a breath of warmth and roses seemed to float towards her, and an arm stole gently round her waist, while a soft hand took up her tiny fingers. Caterina felt an electric thrill, and was motionless for one long moment; then she pushed away the arm and hand, and, turning round, lifted up to the face that hung over her eyes full of tenderness and reproach. The fawn-like unconsciousness was gone, and in that one look were the ground tones of poor little Caterina’s nature--intense love and fierce jealousy. ‘Why do you push me away, Tina?’ said Captain Wybrow in a half-whisper; ‘are you angry with me for what a hard fate puts upon me? Would you have me cross my uncle--who has done so much for us both--in his dearest wish? You know I have duties--we both have duties--before which feeling must be sacrificed.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ said Caterina, stamping her foot, and turning away her head; ‘don’t tell me what I know already.’