the sheep, I had to milk and bake, and at night I
mended my father's fishing-nets, while I was learning Latin with
Eustace. Yet I got through all very well, till my mother fell sick, and
then I nursed and dressed her, as she lay helpless on the pallet. But if
I live with you, I will learn all your employments, for I am never happy
when I am idle, and my only wish is to be useful."

"There is sterling worth in this rustic hoyden," thought Mrs. Mellicent,
who, in contriving some occupation for so active a mind, recollected
that Mrs. Beaumont's dressing-plate had not been cleaned lately, and
undertook to make Isabel expert in furbishing the delicate filigree. She
called on Constantia to give up the key, it being considered as her
property, who blushed, hesitated, begged not to be questioned on the
subject, and at last owned it was gone.

"Gone! to whom?" "Dear aunt," returned Constantia, stealing a look at
the approving eye of Eustace, "I sent it to the King at York, as the
only contribution in my power. You must not be angry. My father and you
set the example, by parting with all the money and valuables you could
collect, and I thought it a bad excuse that, because I was under age, I
might not send my mite to assist him, so I packed it up with my mother's
jewels, and I am happy to say they got safe to His Majesty."

Mrs. Mellicent tried to frown. "Foolish girl," said she, "you should
have kept the essence-box at least, as an heirloom. It was a present
from Henry the Seventh's Queen to your great grandmother's aunt, who was
her maid of honour. There was the union of the two roses wrought upon
it; the King, standing with a red rose in his hand, and the Queen with a
white, and a Bishop between them, and a large dove at the top, with an
olive-branch in his mouth, so beautiful that it fell in festoons all
down the side. Well, I am thankful that I took off the pattern in
chain-stitch. It will shew what good blood you spring from when people
come to be again valued for their families." Mrs. Mellicent retired to
her chamber, secretly pleased with the dispositions of her young charge,
and inclined to believe that a parcel of beggarly republicans could not
long domineer over such generous and aspiring minds.

CHAP. VII.

O War, thou son of Hell,
Throw, in the frozen bosoms of our part,
Hot coals of vengeance, let no soldier fly;
He that is truly dedicate to war
Hath no self-love.