And while he was hastily concocting an excuse, Leonora was walking rapidly through the lanes and fields with little Johnnie, on her way back to the Hall. "I'm glad you came back so soon," Mrs. West said; "for some of the young people have gone over to the ruins, I hear, and I was afraid they would see you." "They did see me; but I came away soon after," the girl answered, carelessly. "They are going to have a picnic at the ruins to-morrow, it seems," pursued her aunt. "Lady Lancaster and all of them are going. So the house will be empty, and I can take you all over it to-morrow, if you like." "Thank you; I shall like it very much," said Leonora, rather apathetically. "And your picture of the ruins--did you get it, my dear?" pursued Mrs. West, suddenly remembering the sketch. "Oh, yes; I finished it." "Aren't you going to let me see it?" "I'm sorry, aunt, but I sold it as soon as I finished it. I'll go back some day and make another for you." "You sold it! To whom, my dear?" exclaimed the good soul, surprised. "Why, to Lord Lancaster," Leonora answered, indifferently. But Mrs. West was delighted. She thought that her niece must be very accomplished, indeed, if she could make a picture that Lord Lancaster would be willing to buy. "He was very kind, especially after the way she behaved the other night. It was quite silly. I did not think Leonora would be so easily frightened. It is a wonder that Lord Lancaster was not offended," she thought. CHAPTER XXVIII. The next day dawned as fair and lovely as any picnic-party could desire. The party from Lancaster set out as early as twelve o'clock, and left the coast clear for Leonora's explorations of the great house. Mrs. West, with her basket full of keys upon her arm, undertook the office of guide. We do not propose to accompany them, you and I, reader. Descriptions of rooms are wearisome alike to reader and writer. Most people skip over these prolix inventories of furniture and bric-a-brac, and hasten on to more interesting matters. We will too, reader. Mrs. West had "reckoned without her host" when she supposed that the house was empty, and that the lady of Lancaster Park as well as the rest of the guests had gone to the Abbey ruins on fun and frolic intent. It was quite true that she had intended doing so, but there is a quaint old adage to the effect that "man proposes, but God disposes." That prosaic affliction, rheumatism, which is no respecter of persons, and to which old age is peculiarly liable, laid its grim hand upon the great lady that morning, and reminded her of a fact that she was sometimes prone to forget, in the arrogance of her greatness and worldly prosperity--namely that, in spite of her wealth and power, she was but mortal, after all, and that although she could order other things, she had no control over her own frail body and soul.