“I bet Ann's never seen inside Shakspere,” said Tembarom. Before reading aloud in the future he gave some previous personal attention to the poem or subject decided upon. It may be at once frankly admitted that when he read aloud it was more for Miss Alicia's delectation than for his own. He saw how much she enjoyed the situation. His effect of frankness and constant boyish talk was so inseparable from her idea of him that she found it a puzzling thing to realize that she gradually began to feel aware of a certain remote reserve in him, or what might perhaps be better described as a habit of silence upon certain subjects. She felt it marked in the case of Strangeways. She surmised that he saw Strangeways often and spent a good deal of time with him, but he spoke of him rarely, and she never knew exactly what hours were given to him. Sometimes she imagined he found him a greater responsibility than he had expected. Several times when she believed that he had spent part of a morning or afternoon in his room, he was more silent than usual and looked puzzled and thoughtful. She observed, as Mr. Palford had, that the picture-gallery, with its portraits of his ancestors, had an attraction. A certain rainy day he asked her to go with him and look them over. It was inevitable that she should soon wander to the portrait of Miles Hugo and remain standing before it. Tembarom followed, and stood by her side in silence until her sadness broke its bounds with a pathetic sigh. “Was he very like him?” he asked. She made an unconscious, startled movement. For the moment she had forgotten his presence, and she had not really expected him to remember. “I mean Jem,” he answered her surprised look. “How was he like him? Was there--” he hesitated and looked really interested--“was he like him in any particular thing?” “Yes,” she said, turning to the portrait of Miles Hugo again. “They both had those handsome, drooping eyes, with the lashes coming together at the corners. There is something very fascinating about them, isn't there? I used to notice it so much in dear little Jem. You see how marked they are in Miles Hugo.” “Yes,” Tembarom answered. “A fellow who looked that way at a girl when he made love to her would get a strangle-holt. She wouldn't forget him soon.” “It strikes you in that way, too?” said Miss Alicia, shyly. “I used to wonder if it was--not quite nice of me to think of it. But it did seem that if any one did look at one like that--” Maidenly shyness overcame her. “Poor Lady Joan!” she sighed. “There's a sort of cleft in his chin, though it's a good, square chin,” he suggested. “And that smile of his--Were Jem's--?” “Yes, they were. The likeness was quite odd sometimes--quite.” “Those are things that wouldn't be likely to change much when he grew up,” Tembarom said, drawing a little closer to the picture. “Poor Jem! He was up against it hard and plenty. He had it hardest. This chap only died.”