Only within doors was comfort. The lamps had not yet been lit, but the fire, burning those rainbow logs of old ships’ wood, filled the room with chequered light and dancing shadows. “Will you tell me about Lady Crosbie?” said Clare. “I know she is a friend of yours.” “Then you must come with me to Drayton,” said Miss Hippesley, “for that was her home. But were I able to transport you there in spirit, I would have to get Mrs. Gladwell to speak to you. She could tell you even more about Lady Crosbie than I.” “Who is Mrs. Gladwell?” “She was the steward’s wife, and knew the family since the children were quite small, for she had been second nurse there. She left as they grew up, and she married; but her husband proved an idle fellow, living on his wife’s earnings; and gradually she came to be the hard-worked servant in a London lodging-house. Her health broke down, and being left a widow, she wrote to the eldest Miss Sackville, telling her case. And Miss Sackville, having kindly memories of her, got her placed in one of the lodges. And later she married Gladwell the steward, and became housekeeper at Drayton Hall.” Miss Hippesley narrowed her eyes in her characteristic manner which you may see delineated in her portrait. She sat quietly, looking steadfastly before her. “I will see if I cannot paint a picture in words for you, Clare, that may bring Diana Crosbie before you.” Clare watched the firelight glimmering on the gold of the picture-frames. She was unwilling to break the silence, for her companion was evidently deep in thought. Presently, however, Miss Hippesley spoke. “I see a room whose windows look out upon a lawn shaded by cedar-trees. A woman sits within in a white mob cap with a cherry ribbon on it, dressed in a mulberry-coloured gown. The room is the steward’s room at Drayton, and though the chintz on the sofa is worn and the wall-paper here and there has faded, yet the ladder-backed chairs and the stout mahogany table give character and dignity to the room. There is an appearance of great comfort; a winged chair is drawn to the fire-place, and a kettle sings upon the hob. The woman is reading a letter. “It is one written by Miss Sackville, the elder sister of Diana. The lines are penned in a tall, slender handwriting on thick paper, sealed. They had no envelopes in those days; a letter was written on a broad sheet, folded upon itself. “There will be allusions, Clare, in this letter to names unknown to you. Yet this is not surprising when you remember that it is a letter two hundred years old. [Illustration: _Reynolds._ LADY CROSBIE] “‘_To_ MRS. GLADWELL, _At_ LORD VISCOUNT SACKVILLE, DRAYTON, Near THRAPSTON, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE.