CHAPTER II 



JOHN MAUNSELL RICHARDSONS FATHER 



The other picture in the old house that impressed we children 

 very strongly, was a life-sized portrait of our father, who died 

 when we were very young. My eldest brother, William, was 

 four, John Maunsell Richardson three, and myself — bringing 

 up the rear — two years old. We liked to look at his face 

 whenever we got the chance, as it had a very kind expression, 

 with a nice colouring, not at all fiery like the picture of the 

 owner of Conqueror. I say " whenever we got the chance," 

 advisedly, because rose-coloured curtains were drawn over it, 

 and only withdrawn on State Occasions, or if we three com- 

 bined in a request to mother and grandmother to let us see 

 it as a special treat. Then when with much solemnity, and with 

 many tears, they would draw back the curtains, the sense of 

 mystery, which is always delightful to children, deepened into 

 a kind of imperfect sympathy for a pain we could not under- 

 stand, and which for many years perplexed us greatly. 



I remember one morning especially well, when we three 

 were invited into the drawing-room where the picture occupied 

 a prominent position. The curtains were withdrawn, and some 

 of the villagers were gazing at the picture, and both men and 

 women were crying bitterly. Naturally such a sight perplexed 

 us still more, but we soon understood sufficiently to know that 

 this picture of the dead William Richardson conveyed to others 



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