All the time Euphra was speaking, Hugh was being perplexed with that most annoying of perplexities —­ the flitting phantom of a resemblance, which he could not catch.  He was forced to dismiss it for the present, utterly baffled.

“Were you really named after her, Miss Cameron?”

“No, no.  It is a family name with us.  But, indeed, I may be said to be named after her, for she was the first of us who bore it.  You don’t seem to like the portrait.”

“I do not; but I cannot help looking at it, for all that.”

“I am so used to the lady’s face,” said Euphra, “that it makes no impression on me of any sort.  But it is said,” she added, glancing at the maid, who stood at some distance, looking uneasily about her —­ and as she spoke she lowered her voice to a whisper —­ “it is said, she cannot lie still.”

“Cannot lie still!  What do you mean?”

“I mean down there in the chapel,” she answered, pointing.

The Celtic nerves of Hugh shuddered.  Euphra laughed; and her voice echoed in silvery billows, that broke on the faces of the men and women of old time, that had owned the whole; whose lives had flowed and ebbed in varied tides through the ancient house; who had married and been given in marriage; and gone down to the chapel below —­ below the prayers and below the psalms —­ and made a Sunday of all the week.

Ashamed of his feeling of passing dismay, Hugh said, just to say something: 

“What a strange ornament that is!  Is it a brooch or a pin?  No, I declare it is a ring —­ large enough for three cardinals, and worn on her thumb.  It seems almost to sparkle.  Is it ruby, or carbuncle, or what?”

“I don’t know:  some clumsy old thing,” answered Euphra, carelessly.

“Oh!  I see,” said Hugh; “it is not a red stone.  The glow is only a reflection from part of her dress.  It is as clear as a diamond.  But that is impossible —­ such a size.  There seems to me something curious about it; and the longer I look at it, the more strange it appears.”

Euphra stole another of her piercing glances at him, but said nothing.

“Surely,” Hugh went on, “a ring like that would hardly be likely to be lost out of the family?  Your uncle must have it somewhere.”

Euphra laughed; but this laugh was very different from the last.  It rattled rather than rang.

“You are wonderfully taken with a bauble —­ for a man of letters, that is, Mr. Sutherland.  The stone may have been carried down any one of the hundred streams into which a family river is always dividing.”

“It is a very remarkable ornament for a lady’s finger, notwithstanding,” said Hugh, smiling in his turn.

“But we shall never get through the pictures at this rate,” remarked Euphra; and going on, she directed Hugh’s attention now to this, now to that portrait, saying who each was, and mentioning anything remarkable in the history of their originals.  She manifested a thorough acquaintance with the family story, and made, in fact, an excellent show-woman.  Having gone nearly to the other end of the gallery, “This door,” said she, stopping at one, and turning over the keys, “leads to one of the oldest portions of the house, the principal room in which is said to have belonged especially to the lady over there.”