But their mirth ceased as the aged housekeeper added:
“She died at twenty-three years old. She was the best, the brightest and the most beautiful being that my eyes ever beheld! And, yes, she died at twenty-three years old! And you are her living image, as nearly as it is possible for a gentleman to be. That was the reason why I looked at you so, sir. I beg your pardon; I forgot myself.”
“Don’t speak of it, Mrs. Basset,” said Ran kindly.
“Thank you, sir. You can see the portrait in the picture gallery to-morrow and judge for yourself—or even to-night if you will,” said the housekeeper.
“Thank you; not to-night; we are too tired. To-morrow you shall show us over the whole house, if you will.”
“That I will with pride and pleasure, sir. And now, madam, shall I attend you to your room?”
“Thank you, yes, please,” said Judy; and she followed her conductress up the broad staircase to a vast upper hall.
The housekeeper opened a door near the head of the stairs and admitted her charge into a spacious, sumptuous bedchamber, upholstered in ebony and old gold, and in which burned a fine open coal fire.
The aged woman, much against Judy’s will, insisted upon waiting upon her; took off her heavy cloak and hat and hung them in the wardrobe, drew a luxurious easy-chair to the fire and seated her in it, and hovered around her with affectionate attentions until Mr. Hay came in, when, with one of her quaint courtesies, she withdrew from the room.
Again Ran took Judy in his arms, folded her to his heart, kissed her fondly and welcomed her home.