"I will be very prudent, papa," answered Christobelle, in a whisper. The vastness of the room, and the mystery expressed in her father's words, struck her with awe. She already felt as though silence must reign with so much grandeur, and that liberty of speech dwelt not in lofty apartments. She continued silently examining a portrait of extreme beauty, which she was aware represented the Dowager Lady Ennismore, in her youth. It still retained a considerable degree of likeness--the eye could never change--its extraordinary expression was there--and the haughty look, subdued by the collision of high society, was admirably expressed in the painting. Christobelle was irresistibly attracted by the portrait, and she gazed upon it till a door opened near her, and roused her attention. A female attendant approached. She was a tall, stately person, attired with peculiar neatness and precision. She brought Lady Ennismore's compliments of welcome. Her ladyship invited her guests to retire to their apartments. She would have the pleasure of meeting them in the drawing-room when the great bell pealed, and after her guests had refreshed themselves by changing their attire. Sir John Wetheral advanced, slightly bowing to the stately messenger. "I believe I address an attendant of Lady Ennismore?" "I have the honour to attend the Dowager Countess of Ennismore," was the reply. "Your message is from Lady Ennismore, my daughter, is it not?" observed Sir John, anxiously. "My message is from the Dowager Countess," replied her attendant. "Lady Ennismore is probably from home?" "The young Lady Ennismore is in her dressing-room," was the answer. "I am deputed to attend Miss Wetheral to her apartment." This was extraordinary. Was not Bedinfield the property of Julia and her lord? Yet the message of compliment was tendered by the Countess Dowager, as if she still presided over the mind and estate of her son. There was something gravely suspicious in this coldly polite reception, which disturbed the father's heart. Christobelle begged to know if her room was situated near her father's bedchamber, and she turned to him with a look of earnest alarm. He smiled. "Miss Wetheral feels a little nervous among strangers; may I inquire if the rooms destined for us are near each other?" "They are near," was the laconic reply, and Christobelle prepared to depart. A servant entering at the moment, to offer his services to Sir John, they proceeded together to the great gallery, into which their apartments opened. The stately female pointed to a heavily-carved oak-door, as she preceded Christobelle. "Sir John Wetheral sleeps in the crimson chamber." She then threw open the door of a large gloomy room appropriated to Christobelle. "Yours, Miss Wetheral, is the tapestried chamber." She then curtseyed and withdrew.