Aveline and her child had been looking over a book with characters cunningly wrought on vellum. It contained the chronicles of the house of Ethalwood, and had been the work of years.
The earlier chronicles dated back some centuries, and the missal, which was quaint and curious, had been originally commenced by an old monk. Lord Ethalwood explained to his grand-daughter the many parts of the volume which were to her unintelligible.
“My child, my own Aveline,” said the Earl, closing the volume, “it is fit and proper that you should know something of your illustrious ancestors, especially as this little fellow is destined, by God’s blessing, to carry on the line in his person. Have you thought, my darling pet, of what I hinted at during the first few days of your visit?” said he, in a more serious tone.
“Thought!” cried she. “Alas, my lord, I have thought of many things—indeed, to say the truth, I am always thinking.”
“You are now in your proper sphere,” he said, quickly, “and I hope and trust you have no desire to leave it.”
“No,” she answered, hesitatingly. “No, my lord, I should be ungrateful indeed if I did, but then there’s my husband.”
Lord Ethalwood held up his hand reprovingly.
“I charge you, Aveline, as you love this boy, as you respect me, not to mention that man’s name in my presence.” He said this in so severe a tone that Aveline grew alarmed.
She fell on her knees before the earl, and placed her hand softly on his.
“Oh, sir!—oh, my lord!” she ejaculated. “Pity and pardon me. I did not mean to offend you—indeed I did not, but——”