'Never, you are quite sure, my dear?' said Lady Knollys, transferring the question to me. 'Oh, no, never,' I answered. Cousin Monica mused gravely, I fancied even anxiously, into the grate; then stirred her tea and sipped it, still looking into the same point of our cheery fire. 'I like your face, Mary Quince; I'm sure you are a good creature,' she said, suddenly turning toward her with a pleasant countenance. 'I'm very glad you have got her, dear. I wonder whether Austin has gone to his bed yet!' 'I think not. I am certain he is either in the library or in his private room--papa often reads or prays alone at night, and--and he does not like to be interrupted.' 'No, no; of course not--it will do very well in the morning.' Lady Knollys was thinking deeply, as it seemed to me. 'And so you are afraid of goblins, my dear,' she said at last, with a faded sort of smile, turning toward me; 'well, if _I_ were, I know what _I_ should do--so soon as I, and good Mary Quince here, had got into my bed-chamber for the night, I should stir the fire into a good blaze, and bolt the door--do you see, Mary Quince?--bolt the door and keep a candle lighted all night. You'll be very attentive to her, Mary Quince, for I--I don't think she is very strong, and she must not grow nervous: so get to bed early, and don't leave her alone--do you see?--and--and remember to bolt the door, Mary Quince, and I shall be sending a little Christmas-box to my cousin, and I shan't forget you. Good-night.' And with a pleasant courtesy Mary fluttered out of the room. CHAPTER XII _A CURIOUS CONVERSATION_ We each had another cup of tea, and were silent for awhile. 'We must not talk of ghosts now. You are a superstitious little woman, you know, and you shan't be frightened.' And now Cousin Monica grew silent again, and looking briskly around the room, like a lady in search of a subject, her eye rested on a small oval portrait, graceful, brightly tinted, in the French style, representing a pretty little boy, with rich golden hair, large soft eyes, delicate features, and a shy, peculiar expression. 'It is odd; I think I remember that pretty little sketch, very long ago. I think I was then myself a child, but that is a much older style of dress, and of wearing the hair, too, than I ever saw. I am just forty-nine now. Oh dear, yes; that is a good while before I was _born_. What a strange, pretty little boy! a mysterious little fellow. Is he quite sincere, I wonder? What rich golden hair! It is very clever--a French artist, I dare say--and who _is_ that little boy?' 'I never heard. Some one a hundred years ago, I dare say. But there is a picture down-stairs I am so anxious to ask you about!' 'Oh!' murmured Lady Knollys, still gazing dreamily on the crayon. 'It is the full-length picture of Uncle Silas--I want to ask you about him.' At mention of his name, my cousin gave me a look so sudden and odd as to amount almost to a start.