Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. "You are, Sir," thundered Jonathan; "and, unless you find him, you shan't hold your place a week. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. Lucy was a hard worker and a good cook and because of those traits she and Sheila had gotten along most of the time.
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