mortar and broken glass.  The house, which was built, or, rather, faced with split flints, and edged and buttressed with cut grey stone, had a majestic but gloomy appearance.  Its front, lofty and handsome, was somewhat castellated in style, two semicircular bows, or half-moons, placed at a suitable distance from each other, rising from the base to the summit of the edifice; these were pierced, at every floor, with rows of stone-mullioned windows, rising to the height of four or five stories.  The flat wall between had larger windows, lighting the great hall, gallery, and upper apartments.  These windows were abundantly ornamented with stained glass, representing the arms, honours, and alms-deeds of the Wimpole family.

“The towers, half included in the building, were completely circular within, and contained the winding stair of the mansion; and whoso ascended them, when the winter wind was blowing, seemed rising by a tornado to the clouds.  Midway between the towers was a heavy stone porch, with a Gothic gateway, surmounted by a battlemented parapet, made gable fashion, the apex of which was garnished by a pair of dolphins, rampant and antagonistic, whose corkscrew tails seemed contorted by the last agonies of rage convulsed.

“The porch doors thrown open to receive me, led into a hall, wide, vaulted and lofty, and decorated here and there with remnants of tapestry and grim portraits of the Wimpoles.  One picture in particular riveted my attention.  Hung in an obscure corner, where the light rarely penetrated, it represented the head and shoulders of a young man with a strikingly beautiful face—­the features small and regular like those of a woman—­the hair yellow and curly.  It was the eyes that struck me most—­they followed me everywhere I went with a persistency that was positively alarming.  There was something in them I had never seen in canvas eyes before, something deeper and infinitely more intricate than could be produced by mere paint—­something human and yet not human, friendly and yet not friendly; something baffling, enigmatical, haunting.  I enquired of my deceased relative’s aged housekeeper, Mrs. Grimstone—­whom I had retained—­whose portrait it was, and she replied with a scared look, ’Horace, youngest son of Sir Algernon Wimpole, who died here in 1745.’

“‘The face fascinates me,’ I said.  ’Is there any history attached to it?’

“‘Why, yes, sir!’ she responded, her eyes fixed on the floor, ’but the late master never liked referring to it.’

“‘Is it as bad as that?’ I said, laughing.  ‘Tell me!’

“‘Well, sir,’ she began, ’they do say as how Sir Algernon, who was a thorough country squire—­very fond of hunting and shooting and all sorts of manly exercises—­never liked Mr. Horace, who was delicate and dandified—­what the folk in those days used to style a macaroni.  The climax came when Mr. Horace took up with the Jacobites.  Sir Algernon would have nothing more to do with him