“Oh! no, no, Count Altenberg,” cried Mrs. Falconer, advancing, “not a daughter of the gentleman of this house--another family, relations, but distant relations of the commissioner’s: _he_ formerly knew something of them, but _we_ know nothing of them.” The painter however knew a great deal, and seemed anxious to tell all he knew: but Mrs. Falconer walked on immediately, saying, “This is our way, is not it? This leads to the library, where, I dare say, we shall find the book which the count wanted.” The count heard her not, for with his eyes fixed on the picture he was listening to the account which the painter was giving of the circumstance it recorded of the fire at Percy-hall--of the presence of mind and humanity of Miss Caroline Percy, who had saved the life of the poor decrepit woman, who in the picture was represented as leaning upon her arm. The painter paused when he came to this part of his story--“That woman was my mother, sir.”--He went on, and with all the eloquence of filial affection and of gratitude, pronounced in a few words a panegyric on the family who had been his first and his best benefactors: all who heard him were touched with his honest warmth, except the Miss Falconers. “I dare say _those_ Percys were very good people in their day,” said Miss Falconer; “but their day is over, and no doubt you’ll find, in the present possessor of the estate, sir, as good a patron at least.” The artist took up his pencil without making any reply, and went on with some heraldic devices he was painting. “I am amazed how you could see any likeness in that face or figure to Lady Anne Cope, or Lady Mary Nesbitt, or any of the Arlingtons,” said Miss Georgiana Falconer, looking through her hand at the portrait of Caroline: “it’s the most beautiful thing I ever saw, certainly; but there’s nothing of an air of fashion, and without that--” “Count Altenberg, I have found for you the very book I heard you tell the commissioner last night you wished so much to see,” said Mrs. Falconer. The count went forward to receive the book, and to thank the lady for her polite attention; she turned over the leaves, and showed him some uncommonly fine prints, which he was bound to admire--and whilst he was admiring, Mrs. Falconer found a moment to whisper to her daughter Georgiana, “Not a word more about the picture: let it alone, and it is only a picture--dwell upon it, and you make it a reality.”