Mrs. Grahame was about to plunge into genealogical depths, when Hildegarde, who had been opening a case of purple morocco, carefully secured with silver clasps, gave an exclamation of pleasure.
"Hester!" she cried. "This is Hester, I know."
Her mother looked, and nodded; and they both gazed in silence at the lovely face, with its earnest grey eyes.
"The dear!" murmured Hildegarde. "How I should have loved her! I am sure we should have liked the same things. I wish she had not died."
"You must remember that she would be a dear old lady now, were she alive, and not a young lassie. What does the slip say, darling? Miss Agatha's hand is rather trying for my eyes."
"'Our dearest Hester,'" Hildegarde read. "'A duplicate of the one painted for Robert Ferrers.' Robert Ferrers!" she repeated thoughtfully. "Is that Colonel Ferrers? and do you suppose—"
At this moment came a knock at the door, and Janet informed them that Mrs. Lankton was in the hall, and would like to speak to one of the ladies.
"I will go," said Hildegarde, laying down the miniature reluctantly.
"We will both go," said her mother. "The poor old dame! We have neglected her all these days."
They locked the drawer of the treasure-cabinet, and Hildegarde ran to put the precious keys in a safe place, while her mother went directly downstairs. By the time Hildegarde appeared, Mrs. Lankton was launched on the full tide of her woes, and was sailing along with a good breeze.