Solemn, quiet, and beautiful, as if they had never known a scandal or a tragedy, slept those old walls in the moonlight, which streamed also in long bars from window to window, across the ghostly gallery before mentioned.  Ghostly enough in all conscience; and yet two little figures went trotting fearlessly down it, as they did every night at eight o’clock, between the two ancient apartments now converted into dining-room and nursery.  The master’s children were too familiar with these grim, shadowy corners to feel the slightest dread besides, they were not imaginative children.  To Arthur, an “ally taw,” that is, a real alabaster marble, such as he now fumbled in his pocket, was an object of more importance than all the defunct bishops, archbishops, kings, queens, and benefactors of every sort, whose grim portraits stared at him by day and night.  And Letitia was far more anxious that the candle she carried should not drop any of its grease upon her best silk frock, than alarmed at the grotesque shadows it cast, making every portrait seem to follow her with his eyes, as old portraits always do.  Neither child was very interesting.  Letitia, with her angular figure and thin light hair, looked not unlike a diminished spectral reflection of the foundress herself—­that pale, prim, pre-Raphaelitish dame who was represented all over the college, in all sizes and varieties of the limner’s art.  Arthur, who hung a little behind his sister, was different from her, being stout and square; but he, too, was not an attractive child, and there was a dormant sullenness in his under lip which showed he could be a very naughty one if he chose.

“I told you so, Titia,” said he, darting to an open door facing the staircase at the gallery’s end.  “There’s papa’s study fire lit.  I knew he was coming home to-night, though aunts won’t let us sit up, as he said we should.  But I will!  I’ll lie awake, if it’s till twelve o’clock, and call him as he passes the nursery door.”

“You forget,” said Titia, drawing herself up with a womanly air, “papa will not be alone now.  He may not care to come to you now he has got Mrs. Grey.”

“Mrs. Grey!”

“You know aunts told us always to call her so.  I’m sure I don’t want to call her any thing.  I hate her!”

“So do I,” rejoined the boy, doubling up his fist with intense enjoyment.  “Wouldn’t I like to pitch into her for marrying papa!  But yet,” with a sudden compunction, “she gave us lots of cake.  And she looked rather jolly, eh?”

“Jolly!  You boys are so vulgar,” said the little lady, contemptuously.  “But I dare say you’ll like her, for aunts say she is quite a vulgar person.  As for me, I don’t mean to take any notice of her at all.”

“A deal she’ll care for that!  Who minds you? you’re only a girl.”