an act of treason, she could not help it. Perhaps there was most treason in the interest with which she gazed on the handsome and melancholy countenance of the prince, that wore the expression of sadness peculiar to his fated race.
"It is a hard fate," thought she, "to be exiled from so noble a heritage as England."
On a little stand, in the middle, was a large basket, filled with white roses; the duchess took one and gave it to her young companion. They left the chamber in silence; and, after seeing that the panel was properly secured,—
"I have got another portrait to shew you," said her grace, in a tone from which every thing but deep sadness had vanished: "alas! ours is an ill-fated house!"
They followed her into another chamber, hung with black; and, beneath a sombre canopy, mocked by the ducal coronet above, was the portrait of her son—the young duke recently deceased. He was more like the Stuarts than his mother; but it was a soft, fair likeness. The same sad and sombre ex-
