The staircase led Lady Annabel and her party through several small rooms, scantily garnished with ancient furniture, in some of which were portraits of the family, until they at length entered a noble saloon, once the refectory of the abbey, and not deficient in splendour, though sadly soiled and worm-eaten.  It was hung with tapestry representing the Cartoons of Raffael, and their still vivid colours contrasted with the faded hangings and the dingy damask of the chairs and sofas.  A mass of Cromwellian armour was huddled together in a corner of a long monkish gallery, with a standard, encrusted with dust, and a couple of old drums, one broken.  From one of the windows they had a good view of the old walled garden, which did not tempt them to enter it; it was a wilderness, the walks no longer distinguishable from the rank vegetation of the once cultivated lawns; the terraces choked up with the unchecked shrubberies; and here and there a leaden statue, a goddess or a satyr, prostrate, and covered with moss and lichen.

‘It makes me melancholy,’ said Lady Annabel; ‘let us return.’

‘Mamma,’ said Venetia, ‘are there any ghosts in this abbey?’

‘You may well ask me, love,’ replied Lady Annabel; ’it seems a spell-bound place.  But, Venetia, I have often told you there are no such things as ghosts.’

’Is it naughty to believe in ghosts, mamma, for I cannot help believing in them?’

’When you are older, and have more knowledge, you will not believe in them, Venetia,’ replied Lady Annabel.

Our friends left Cadurcis Abbey.  Venetia mounted her donkey, her mother walked by her side; the sun was beginning to decline when they again reached Cherbury, and the air was brisk.  Lady Annabel was glad to find herself by her fireside in her little terrace-room, and Venetia fetching her book, read to her mother until their dinner hour.

CHAPTER III.

Two serene and innocent years had glided away at Cherbury since this morning ramble to Cadurcis Abbey, and Venetia had grown in loveliness, in goodness, and intelligence.  Her lively and somewhat precocious mind had become greatly developed; and, though she was only nine years of age, it scarcely needed the affection of a mother to find in her an interesting and engaging companion.  Although feminine education was little regarded in those days, that of Lady Annabel had been an exception to the general practice of society.  She had been brought up with the consciousness of other objects of female attainment and accomplishment than embroidery, ‘the complete art of making pastry,’ and reading ‘The Whole Duty of Man.’  She had profited, when a child, by the guidance of her brother’s tutor, who had bestowed no unfruitful pains upon no ordinary capacity.  She was a good linguist, a fine musician, was well read in our elder poets and their Italian originals, was no unskilful artist, and had acquired some knowledge of botany