They were silent after she left, hardly daring to venture a remark until Nancy threw herself into the breach by saying:
“What a beautiful old house this is, Mrs. l’Estrange. It is as big as a hotel. I never saw so many rooms in a private house.”
“I’m glad you like it, dear. It has been in my family for a great many years and it is rather in disrepair now. The furniture is quite old. I have not bought any in my time except the piano. It was all collected by my mother and grandmother and great-grandmother, too. If you have been in my drawing-room, perhaps you noticed the inlaid desk. It was brought over from France nearly two hundred years ago. I value it more than anything in the house, I think. And if you are interested in such things, you must ask Virginia to show you the tea set which was once owned by Lady Hamilton. And many other things, the silver bowl presented to my great-grandmother by General Lafayette, and a beautiful sword which was given to one of my great-great uncles by General Jackson.”
So the invalid chattered away. It was evident that the lost treasures of that house were her greatest joy and hobby, and her children had never had the heart to tell her they were gone, scattered.
“Perhaps you would like to see my collection of miniatures,” went on Mrs. l’Estrange. “They are just inside the cabinet. Won’t you bring them over, and I can explain them myself.”
On a shelf in the highboy they found two large black velvet plaques on which were pinned a dozen beautiful miniatures, some in jeweled frames.
“These are all my family,” she said. “I shall have the children done to add to the collection as soon as I am well enough to go North. There are no good artists in this part of the country. This is my aunt who danced with the Prince of Wales. She is like Virginia, I think, blonde hair and blue eyes and the same sweet expression. This is my uncle who was presented with the sword. He was a brave soldier.”
“Here is some one who looks very much like your son, Mrs. l’Estrange,” put in Billie.
The picture they were looking at was a tinted photograph showing a handsome young man with black hair and clear blue eyes. It resembled Edward except that the mouth and chin were softer and less resolute in outline. The face indeed was more like Edward Paxton’s.
“Oh,” said Virginia’s mother, “I did not know that was on the plaque. That is my husband’s picture.” She laid it on the table nervously and then picked it up again and looked at it sadly. “My poor husband,” she said softly, continuing to gaze at it so long that the girls felt uncomfortable and embarrassed.