I followed her into the drawing-room. The light of two moderateur lamps muffled in pink shades threw a delightfully tender glow all over the apartment. Our furniture was very old-fashioned. It bad all been purchased when my great-grandmother had been brought home, and was esteemed a wonder of its kind then. The rosewood settees and spider-legged chairs were upholstered in the richest flowered brocade, very faded now, but highly respectable in their antiquity. The mirrors were oval in gilt frames, an eagle holding a chain, to which was appended a golden ball, surmounting each. A sofa large enough to seat a dozen people in a row graced one wall, while a thin old-fashioned card-table, over which many hundreds of guineas had changed hands, adorned the other. In the alcove, in a stiff, formal, uncompromising arm-chair, so utterly different from the inviting lounges of to-day, sat Mabel, turning over the leaves of a scrap-book that had been made up by my grandmother. Dressed in simple white, with a sprig of forget-me-not in her golden hair, she looked so lovely that my heart flew to her. “I hope you haven’t caught cold. Shall I close the window, Miss Hawthorne?” “Oh! dear, no; it was just a passing sensation, a shiver.” “Somebody was treading upon your grave,” I said, alluding to the popular superstition. “What do you mean by that?” she asked. When I had told her, “I should like to know where I shall be interred.” “I know where I shall be, if I am not hanged or lost at sea.” “Where?” “In the little churchyard close by; it’s in the domain.” “Are all your family interred there?” “We have head-stones since 1650. Cromwell’s troopers destroyed everything, digging up the graves in the hope of finding armlets and golden ornaments of our race.” “I should like to visit the churchyard.” “By moonlight?” I said laughingly. “Oh! yes. “‘If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight,’ sings Scott.” “Your wish shall be gratified.” “When?” At this moment Mr. Hawthorne entered the room, carrying in his hand two telegrams. “Startling news!” he exclaimed. “What is it, papa?” asked his daughter somewhat affrightedly. “Nothing alarming, my dear.” Turning to me, “Your county member is dead.” “Dead?” I cried. “Dropped dead on the steps of the Carlton Club.” “Is it Mr. Bromly de Ruthven?” “Yes.” “That’s awfully sudden. I had a visit from him not ten days ago. He was quite a young man, and, for his party, a rising one.” “I cannot agree with you there, Mr. Fitzgerald,” said my guest in his usual pompous style. “His speech—if speech it might be called—on the malt question was a tissue of illogical absurdity. But now, Mabel, I have a big surprise for you. The great conservative party—I call them great, sir, although in opposition—have not been idle, and already has a candidate been selected.” “That’s rather quick work, Mr. Hawthorne.”