As they walked across the lawn towards the river, Elizabeth turned back to look again;her uncle and aunt stopped also,and while the former was conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.

This was praise,of all others most extraordinary,most opposite to her ideas.That he was not a good-tempered man had been her firmest opinion.Her keenest attention was awakened;she longed to hear more,and was grateful to her uncle for saying:

“Yes,sir;but I do not know when that will be.I do not know who is good enough for him.”

“This fine account of him,”whispered her aunt as they walked,“is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.”

“Perhaps we might be deceived.”

“If your master would marry,you might see more of him.”

In the gallery there were many family portraits,but they could have little to fix the attention of a stranger.Elizabeth walked in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her.At last it arrested her―and she beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy,with such a smile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he looked at her.She stood several minutes before the picture,in earnest contemplation,and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father's lifetime.