The rays of the September sun flooded the great halls of the old château of theDukes of Charmerace, lighting up with their mellow glow the spoils of so manyages and many lands, jumbled together with the execrable taste which so oftenafflicts those whose only standard of value is money. The golden light warmedthe panelled walls and old furniture to a dull lustre, and gave back to thefading gilt of the First Empire chairs and couches something of its oldbrightness. It illumined the long line of pictures on the walls, pictures ofdead and gone Charmeraces, the stern or debonair faces of the men, soldiers,statesmen, dandies, the gentle or imperious faces of beautiful women. Itflashed back from armour of brightly polished steel, and drew dull gleams fromarmour of bronze. The hues of rare porcelain, of the rich inlays of Oriental orRenaissance cabinets, mingled with the hues of the pictures, the tapestry, thePersian rugs about the polished floor to fill the hall with a rich glow ofcolour.
But of all the beautiful and precious things which the sun-rays warmed to aclearer beauty, the face of the girl who sat writing at a table in front of thelong windows, which opened on to the centuries-old turf of the broad terrace,was the most beautiful and the most precious.
It