'Tis only noble to be good;
Kind hearts are more than coronets
And simple faith than Norman blood."
"By whom is that, Lord Brompton? Ah! I see, Lord d'Eyncourt. His name is on the title-page."
"An eccentric Victorian poet," said the young man, "of much account in his own day, if I mistake not."
"I never heard of him," said Maggie, "but I am little of an antiquarian. It is pretty, though."
"I remember," said he, "that we as children used to act theatricals here in those old clothes, duds we ransacked from the closets."
"But where is the ghost? I want to see the ghost!" cried the girl, tossing aside the last bit of tarnished finery. "What is this?" she continued, seizing the end of a beam which had become loosened and projected from the wall.
"You will have the house about our ears if you persist," he cried, as a shower of crumbled stone and mortar followed her investigation.
"Well, it is my house, Lord Brompton; I have the right if I choose to."