The drawing-room, wherein Miss Linisfarne was generally to be found, was a vast apartment in the right-hand corner of the house. Eight French windows opened on to the front terrace, and five oriels at the side overlooked a sea of green, for here the forest rolled its leafy waves up to the very walls of the mansion. This apartment possessed a polished floor, which was strewn with bright-hued mats from the looms of Ispahan. Scattered sparsely through the room were chairs with cushions of faded satin, oval tables of rosewood and walnut, laden with books long since out of print; also with strange carvings in ivory by Chinese artificers, pots of dried rose-leaves, and glass-shaded wax flowers. Sofas of classical shape, designed during the first Empire of France, were stiffly set against the walls. Overhead the oval roof was frescoed with paintings of mythological subjects, and on the walls hung dark oil pictures and gilt-framed mirrors. Faded curtains draped the windows, and so excluded the light that the vast room was constantly filled with shadows. Over all lay the grey dust undisturbed for years. It was an eerie-looking place, and there was something terrifying about the large hollow empty space. Ghosts only could fitly inhabit its gloom and desolation. Near one of the oriel windows Miss Linisfarne lay on her couch. Here there was an attempt at comfort. A square of carpet faced the sofa, and was met at its outer borders by a gaudy Japanese screen, which converted the spot into a tiny room. A work-table stood close at hand, and near it an armchair was placed, while a revolving bookcase gave a touch of modernity to the nook. Here, in this oasis of comfort, Miss Linisfarne worked, and read, and fretted, and thought. It was at once her home and her prison. At times her hands would fall idly on her lap, and her eyes would wander from book or work to gaze out of the oriel at the green ocean of trees which isolated her dwelling. God alone knows what were her thoughts during those melancholy musings. Of nothing bright, you may be sure, for Mariana in her Moated Grange was less solitary than this woman with the sad eyes. A cloud of mystery, of dread, of horror, hung over the house and its occupant. No wonder the superstitious villagers avoided the unholy spot. House and women were accursed.