He flung it open, and the great room showed wide, its high domed roof lost in shadow, while along the bare floor and up the latticed books crept, here streaks and fingers, and there wide breadths of light from the unshuttered and curtainless windows.
"Isn't it the very poetry of night and solitude ?" he said, looking in with her.

"You love the place; but did you ever see it so lovable?
The dead are here; you did right to come and seek them! Look at your namesake, in that ray.

To-night she lives! She knows that is her husband opposite--those are her books beside her.

And the rebel!"-- he pointed smiling to the portrait of John Boyce.

"When you are gone I shall shut myself up here--sit in his chair, invoke him--and put my speech together.