The floor was of the most exquisite parquetry; the seats and lounges were soft and luxurious; in the great windows east and west there stood a small fountain, and the ripple of the water sounded like music in the quietude of the gallery.

One portion of it was devoted entirely to family portraits.

They were a wonderful collection perhaps one of the most characteristic in England.
Lord Arleigh and his young wife walked through the gallery.
"I thought the gallery at Verdun Royal the finest in the world," she said; "it is nothing compared to this." "And this," he returned, "is small, compared with the great European galleries." "They belong to nations; this belongs to an individual," she said--"there is a difference." Holding her hand in his, he led her to the long line of fair-faced women.

As she stood, the light from the setting sun falling on her fair face and golden hair, he said to himself that he had no picture in his gallery one-half so exquisite.
"Now," he said, "let me introduce you to the ladies of my race." At that moment the sunbeams that had been shining on the wall died out suddenly.

She looked up, half laughingly.
"I think the ladies of your race are frowning on me, Norman," she said.
"Hardly that; if they could but step down from their frames, what a stately company they would make to welcome you!" And forthwith he proceeded to narrate their various histories.
"This resolute woman," he said, "with the firm lips and strong, noble face, lived in the time of the Roses; she held this old hall against her foes for three whole weeks, until the siege was raised, and the enemy retired discomfited." "She was a brave woman," remarked Lady Arleigh.
"This was a heroine," he went on--"Lady Alicia Arleigh; she would not leave London when the terrible plague raged there.