He changed his position, and looked away from her face into the room with a light in his deep-set eyes. "You ought to have been Elizabeth Leigh's daughter," he said. "I did not think there were any more women like her in the world." "I am like other women," said Elizabeth, humbly, "only more ignorant." He made no comment--they both found it rather difficult to speak at this point--and, after an expressive pause, she went on, rather hurriedly, "Was Elizabeth Leigh the lady who married your uncle?" "Yes," he replied, bringing himself back to his story with an effort, "she was. She was a lovely woman, bright and clever, fond of dress and fun and admiration, like other women; but with a solid foundation to her character that you will forgive my saying is rare to your sex--as far, at least, as I am able to judge. I saw her when I was a little schoolboy, but I can picture her now, as if it were but yesterday. What vigour she had! What a wholesome zest for life! And yet she gave up everything to go into exile and obscurity with the man she loved. Ah, _what_ a woman! She _ought_ not to have died. She should have lived and reigned at Yelverton, and had a houseful of children. It is still possible--barely, barely possible--that she did live, and that I shall some day stumble over a handsome young cousin who will tell me that he is the head of the family." "O no," said Elizabeth, "not after all these years. Give up thinking of such a thing. Take your own money now, as soon as you go home, and"--looking up with a smile--"buy all the beer and tobacco that you want." CHAPTER XXV. OUT IN THE COLD.