mare, and I have brought him down for change, to drive the frightening thoughts away. He will not take cold, he is in flannel, and the shawl is round him. Besides, the evening is warm."
"He must not be here many minutes. He ought to be asleep," said his mother.
"My dear, I have promised him a look at a picture-book. It will make him forget his fancies. What have you over there?"
"No Sunday stories or pictures, I fear."
"Yonder is a book in red—illustrated. What is it?"
"'Sintram'—it is not a Sunday book."
"I have not read it for an age, but if I remember right, the D— comes into it."
"If that be the case it is perhaps allowable."
"What is the meaning of that picture?" asked the little boy, pointing to the first in the text. It was by Selous. It represented a great hall with a stone table in the centre, about which knights were seated, carousing. In the foreground was a boy kneeling, beating his head, apparently frantic. An old priest stood by, on one side, and a baron was starting from the table, and upsetting his goblet of wine.
"I cannot tell, I forget the story, it must be forty years since I read it. I have not my glasses. Pass the book to your mother, she will read."
Lady Lamerton drew the volume to her, and read as follows:— "A boy, pale as death, with disordered hair and closed eyes, rushed into the hall, uttering a wild scream of terror, and clinging to the baron with both hands, shrieked piercingly, 'Knight and father! Father and knight! Death and another are closely pursuing me!' An awful stillness lay like ice on the whole assembly, save that the boy screamed ever the fearful words."
"It is not a pretty story," said Lord Lamerton uneasily.
