Lady Ann went up the stair slowly and perpendicularly, a dull pain at her heart. The cause was not so much that her son was the second son, as that the son of the blacksmith's daughter was--she took care to say _at first sight_--a finer _gentleman_ than her Arthur. Rank and position, she vaguely reflected, must not look for justice from the jealous heavens! They always sided with the poor! Just see the party-spirit of the Psalms! The rich and noble were hardly dealt with! Nowadays even the church was with the radicals! The baronet was merry over his luncheon. The servants wondered at first, but before the soup was removed, they wondered no more: the young man at the table, in whom not one of them had recognized the bookbinder, was the lost heir to Mortgrange! He was worth finding, they agreed--one who would hold his own! The house would be merrier now--thank heaven! They liked Mr. Arthur well enough, but here was his master! The meal was over, and the baronet always slept after lunch. “You'll stay to dinner, won't you, Mr. Wingfold?” he said, rising. “--Richard, ring the bell. Better send for Mrs. Locke at once, and arrange with her where you will sleep.” “Then I may choose my own room, sir?” rejoined Richard. “Of course--but better not too near my lady's,” answered his father with a grim smile as he hobbled from the room. When the housekeeper came-- “Mrs. Locke,” said Richard, “I want to see the room that used to be the nursery--in the older time, I mean.” “Yes, sir,” answered Mrs. Locke pleasantly, and led them up two flights of stairs and along corridor and passage to the room Richard had before occupied. He glanced round it, and said, “This shall be my room. Will you kindly get it ready for me.” She hesitated. It had certainly not been repapered, as sir Wilton thought, and had said to Mrs. Tuke! To Mrs. Locke it seemed uninhabitable by a gentleman. “I will send for the painter and paper-hanger at once,” she replied, “but it will take more than a week to get ready.” “Pray leave it as it is,” he answered. “--You can have the floor swept of course,” he added with a smile, seeing her look of dismay. “I will sleep here to-night, and we can settle afterward what is to be done to it.--There used to be a portrait,” he went on, “--over the chimney-piece, the portrait of a lady--not well painted, I fancy, but I liked it: what has become of it?” Then first it began to dawn on Mrs. Locke that the young man who mended the books and the heir to Mortgrange were the same person. “It fell down one day, and has not been put up agin,” she answered. “Do you know where it is?” “I will find it, sir.” “Do, if you please. Whose portrait is it?” “The last lady Lestrange's, sir.--But bless my stupid old head! it's his own mother's picture he's asking for! You'll pardon me, sir! The thing's more bewildering than you'd think!--I'll go and get it at once.” “Thank you. Mr. Wingfold and I will wait till you bring it.”