“I saw her now and then and remember that she used to give me presents, one was this well-wrought Italian buckle, which I still wear on my belt. She was very fond of books too, and there was some talk of my great-grandfather having intended to leave her half the books in this library; but he died rather suddenly and I imagine, therefore, that he had not time to carry out his intention.” “I suppose then that she would often sit where I am sitting now. How interesting it is to picture it all.” “Oh, yes, she had a special ambry in the wall, that old James Mowbray had made for her. It is there behind that panel, with the small ornamental lock. I think that the key of it will be about somewhere. The library keys used to be kept in the little drawer in this table at the end.” “I did not know that there was a drawer,” said Aline. “I fancy it is made the way it is on purpose, so as not to be very conspicuous. You cannot call it a secret drawer though. I doubt if that kind of thing was in the old man’s line, although he had some strange fancies. Yes, here they are,” he said, pulling out the drawer. “See, this is the ambry,” he went on, opening the cupboard as he spoke. “Would you like it for your own treasures?” “Very much indeed.” “Then you can have it.” Aline’s face lit up with pleasure. “Oh, thank you so much, that is delightful.” “I am not certain what these other keys are for,” said Master Mowbray. “This is, I think, the key of that old kist which used to have some papers that were at one time of importance relating to the house. If you like to rummage over old things you may enjoy having a look at them. I think that you are a good girl and that I may trust you, but you must remember always to lock it and put everything back. One of the other keys is, of course, the key of the rods that hold the books and the remaining key I have forgotten. You had better take your own key off the bunch, but keep them all in the drawer as before.” He put the keys in the drawer and came back and sat on the seat opposite her. “I have never heard you read,” he said, “and Audry tells me that you are a fine reader. I have almost forgotten how to read myself, so little do I practise it nowadays. Are you tired, child? Would you read me something?” “Yes, sire, if it would please you,” she said. “You can call me Cousin Richard,” he replied. “I remember how my aunt, your great-grandmother, whom you slightly resemble, once read to me in this very room, when I was a boy.” “Oh, what did she read?” “There was one story, a poem about a father who had lost his little daughter, and saw a vision of her in heaven.” “Oh, ‘Pearl,’ a lovely musical thing with all the words beginning with the same letters. I do not mean all the words; I do not know how to explain it; you know what I mean.” “Then there was another one about a green girdle and a lady that kissed a knight.” “Yes, ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’; it is a pretty tale.”