Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1890-03-08

and the more | couldn't get in the more keeuly
curious l became. So at last knowing old
Mrs. Murdew would never resent any liberty on
the part Of my mothers daughter mother be-
ing power at Lamford, l tried the door,
1t opened easily and / went in. taking care to
smut the door after me- as to keep Ponto and
Sappho outside. They were scampering about
the strawberries and l knew they would find
their way home when they missed me. l went
IN feellng very much as Fatma must have
felt, or. In other words, just little ashamed of
my idle curiosity ..'-
The house is a dear old house. very shabby as
TO carpets and curtains but with lovely old
furniture of Sir Charles Grandison's period
ana with old china in every corner. china which
L am convinced is worth fortune; but will
never breathe word about its value to Mr.
tIorestan or he may pack it all of to Christies.
Men are such Cloths where old china Is con-
cerned
Yes, it is dear old house. It has an old. old,
perfume Of rose leaves and lavender, which
must have been boarded ever so long before
MI. florestan was born, In all the old chrysan-
themum bowls aud hawthorn jars which stand
about everywhere on the tops of cabinets and
In corner cupboards. and in quaint little al
coves and recesses which one meets with un-
awares in the corridors and lobbes. Not all
the wealth OF the Indies could create such a
house. 1t is the slow growth of time, like the
golden brown lichens and cool gray MOSES on
the garden wall.
/ roamod and roamed about the rooms on
the ground floor, opening one into another,
quantity announcement, with queer little DOORS
half wainscot and half wall paper: rooms with
out the faintcst pretension to splendor or dig
nifty, rooms that suggest the world Miss
Edgeworth and Miss Austen knew it, a world
in which people dined at o'clock, and danced
country dances, and played on the spinet. and
painted on velvet, and talked about the lunch
con tray and the Britska.
looked al all the ornaments on all the tables
chimney thInUs ID
mothers loved; cardboard hand screens. with
pencil landscapes-Craigmiller Castle, GUYS
Cliif-spill boxes. What spills, by the way?
Old albums and scrap books. old work baskets
lined with faded satin. Everything was ar
ranged as neatly as it had been fifty years ago,
when Mr.. Florestan's grandmother was mistress
of the house, and these we're her things, most
of them. His mothers room had more mod
ern look, vet even there the books. desks and
work boxes were old-fashioned. How quickly
the fashion of this life passes away
At first l was too much interested and amused
to feel the uncanny influences of those empty
rooms full of things that had belonged to pco-
pie who were all dead hut presently that air
OF long ago, together with the deathlke silence
OF the house, began to affect my spirits A
feeling of profound melancholy crept over me-
thought of nv dear, dead father and won
dered as have SO often wondered where the
dead are. how near US, or how distant. 1 went
back to the dining room for Il last look at the
house. Mrs. Murdew had evidently gone out
upon some errand and there was no use in
waiting for her return
l looked with interest at the picture on the
left OF the sideboard and near the door leading
into the hall. 1t was the portrait of Mr.
Florestan's father, full-length painting, in
rough brown shooting suit. knickerbockers and
mighty hobnailed boots. A picturesque brown
hat, gun and liver-colored pointer were the
accessories OF the boldly painted figure, against
a background Of russell foliage. The picture,
which was by master hand, might have been
called study i'll brown.
The likeness between father and son was re-
markable. 1t might have been Gilbert Flores
tan's portrait that was looking at. studied
the picture SO long-fascinated by that wonder
full slapdasE power, the kind of painting which
RuSkin describes as a rapid hand and full
brush-that the face seemed to grow into my
mind and the figure almost took life and motion
as l looked at it. My nerves were in a peculiar
state after that hour of silence and thoughtful
ness in the desolate house or else | could
hardly have been SO foolish as was two minutes
afterward when turned to leave the dining
room and shrieked with terror on seeing a
figure on the threshold of the door in the
shadow of the half closed shutters.
was idiot enough to mistake reality for ap-
partition. In that moment of terror believed
that the figure standing there looking at me
with quiet smile was the ghostly semblance
of the dead man whose picture had contem-
plated so long.