The Argosy — page 16: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

6 Lhe Master of Greylands. It proved, however, to be only an excuse from one of the expected guests : and a strange relief sat on his face. ‘‘ Lawrence can’t come, James. So there'll be but five of us.” ‘‘Lawrence is not much loss,” said Mr. Castlemaine, slightingly. “You don’t look quite yourself, Peter;” he added to his brother; something in the latter’s countenance havmg struck his observant eye. “I doubt you are working too hard. Don’t let the love of money take all pleasure out of life. Surely you must have made enough, and might now take some rest.” The banker laughed. “As to taking rest, that’s easier recommended than done, James. I am too young to give up work yet: I should be like a fish out: of water.” “Ah well—we are all, I expect, wedded to our work—whatever it may be: creatures of habit,” admitted Mr. Castlemaine. ‘‘I will just go and see Mary Ursula. She’s in her room, I suppose. What a treasure you possess in that girl, Peter !” “Beyond the wealth of Solomon; beyond all price,” was the im- pulsive answer, and Peter Castlemaine’s face glowed as he said it. ‘Yes, you will find her in her room, James.” The Master of Greylands went to the end of the wide and handsome passage, its walls lined with paintings, and knocked at a door there. A sweet voice bade him enter. The small, choice room was brilliantly lighted with wax tapers ; the fire threw a warmth on its dainty furniture. A lady, tall, slight, and very beautiful, who had been working at a sketch, put down her pencil, and rose. It was Miss Castlemaine, the banker’s only child: as fair a picture as could be found in the world. She wore a white muslin dress, made low, in the fashion of the day. On her neck was a string of pearls; bracelets of the same clasped her arms. Her face was ‘indeed beautiful: it was like her father’s face, but more delicately carved ; the complexion was of a paler and fairer tint; her brown eyes instead of flashing, as his did in his youth, had a subdued, almost a sad look in them. It was one of the sweetest faces ever seen, but alto- gether its pervading expression was that of sadness. She was now in her five-and-twentieth year. An accomplished lady was she, very much so for those days, and of great good sense; her conversational powers rare; a sound musician, and a fair linguist, fond of sketching and painting in water-colours. With it all, she was particularly gentle in manner, modest and retiring as a woman should be: at all times a repose upon her that was most charming. Her father loved her with an ardent love; he had lost his wife, and this child was all-in-all to him. His happiest hours were spent with her. In the twilight he would linger in the music-room, listening to her as she sat at the piano, or at the sweet-toned organ he had had built for her—the' tones ‘not more sweet than her own voice when raised in song. Her gift of extem- SS (C(O) mn —_)