“Reginald Herbert de Guyon! ah! second Baron of Gwynne, Lord Protector of Munster, Knight of Malta, Chevalier of St. John of Jerusalem, Standard-Bearer to the Queen! and well you desarve it all! 'T is yourself sits your horse like a proud nobleman!” He stood with eyes riveted upon the picture, while his face glowed with intense enthusiasm, and at last, as a bitter sneer passed across his lips, he added, “Ay, faith! and them that comes after us won't like the look of you. 'T is you that 'll never disguise from them your real mind, and every day they 'll dine in the hall, that same frown will darken, and that same hand will threaten them.” He moved on now, and passed several portraits without stopping, muttering as he went, “'T is more English than Irish blood is in your veins, and you won't feel as much for us as the rest;” then, halting suddenly, he stood before a tall figure, dressed in black velvet, with a deep collar of point lace. A connoisseur of higher pretensions than poor Tate might have gazed with even greater rapture at that splendid canvas, for it was from the hand of Vandyke, and in his very best manner. The picture represented the person of Sir Everard Darcy, Lord Privy Seal to Charles I. It was a specimen of manly beauty and high blood such as the great Fleming loved to paint; and even yet the proud and lofty forehead, the deep-set brown eyes, the thin compressed lip, the long and somewhat projecting chin, seemed to address themselves to the beholder with traits of character more than mere painting is able to convey. Tate approached the spot with an almost trembling veneration, and bowed deeply before the haughty figure. “There was a time, Sir Everard, when your word could make a duke or a marquis,--when your whisper in the king's ear could bring grief or joy to any heart in the empire. Could you do nothing for us now? They say you never were at a loss, no matter what came to pass--that you were always ready-witted to save your master from trouble--and oh! if the power hasn't left you, stand by us now. It is not because your eyes are so bright, and that quiet smile is on your lips, that your heart does not feel, for I know well that the day you were beheaded you had the same look on you as you have now. I think I see you this minute, as you lifted your head off the block to settle the lace collar that the villain, the executioner, rumpled with his bloody fingers,--I think I hear the words you spoke: 'Honest Martin, for all your practice, you are but a clumsy valet.' Weil, well! 't is a happier and a prouder day that same than to-morrow's dawn will bring to ourselves. Yes, yes, my darlings,” said Tate, with a benevolent smile, as he waved his hand towards a picture where two beautiful children were represented, sitting on the grass, and playing with flowers, “be happy and amuse yourselves, in God's name; 'tis the only time for happiness your lives ever gave you. Ah! and here 's your father, with a smile on