had been religiously preserved as heirlooms for several centuries—­were sold at contemptible rates and passed into the hands of brokers.  As each historical relic was placed on the table or held up by the auctioneer, the links of his illustrious race seemed to break off and depart.  When the sale was nearly over, the portraits of the eminent men who had borne the name of De Vlierbeck were taken down from the walls and placed upon the stand.  The first—­that of the hero of St. Quentin—­was knocked off to a dealer for little more than three francs!  In the sale of this portrait, and the laughable price it brought, there was so much bitter irony that, for the first time, the agony that had been so long torturing De Vlierbeck’s heart began to exhibit its traces in his countenance.  No sooner had the hammer fallen, than, with downcast eyes and a sigh that was inaudible even to his nearest neighbor, the stricken nobleman turned from the crowd and left the saloon, so as not to witness the final sacrifice of the remaining memorials that bound him to his race.

The sun was but an hour or two above the horizon.  A deathlike silence had taken the place of the noise, bustle, and vulgarity that ruled at Grinselhof during the morning; the solitary garden-walks were deserted, the house-door and gate were closed, and a stranger might have supposed that nothing had occurred to disturb the usual quiet of the spot.  Suddenly the door of the dwelling opened, and two persons appeared upon the sill; one, a man advanced in life, the other, a pale and serious woman.  Each carried a small package and seemed ready for travel.  Lenora was dressed in a simple dark gown and bonnet, her neck covered by a small square handkerchief.  De Vlierbeck was buttoned up to the chin in a coarse black greatcoat, and wore a threadbare cap whose large visor nearly masked his features.  Although it was evident that the homeless travellers had literally stripped themselves of all superfluities and had determined to go forth with the merest necessaries of decency, there was something in the manner in which they wore their humble costumes that distinctly marked their birth and breeding.  The old man’s features were not changed; but it was difficult to say whether they expressed pleasure, pain, or indifference.  Lenora seemed strong and resolute, although she was about to quit the place of her birth and separate herself, perhaps forever, from all she had loved from infancy,—­from those aged groves beneath whose shadows the dawn of love first broke upon her heart,—­from that remembered tree at whose feet the timid avowal of Gustave’s passion had fallen on her ear.  But a sense of duty possessed and ruled her heart.  Reason in her was not overmastered by sensibility; and, when she saw her father tottering at her side, all her energy was rallied in the effort to sustain him.

They did not linger at the door, but, crossing the garden rapidly, directed their steps toward the farm-house, which they entered to bid its occupants farewell.  Bess and her servant-maid were in the first apartment below.