that only the eyes, nose, and mouth were left visible. This
lady's face was almost as white as her robes. Even her lips seemed
colourless; and the fixed, weary, hopeless expression was only broken by
two dark, brilliant, sunken eyes, in which lay a whole volume of unread
history--eyes that looked as if they could flash with fury, or moisten
with pity, or grow soft and tender with love; eyes that had done all
these, long, long ago! so long ago, that they had forgotten how to do
it. Sad, tired, sorrowful eyes--eyes out of which all expectation had
departed; which had nothing left to fear, only because they had nothing
left to hope. They were turned now upon Amphillis.

"Your Grace's new chamber-dame," said Mistress Perrote, "in the room of
Clarice. Her name is Amphillis Neville."

The faintest shadow of interest passed over the sorrowful eyes.

"Go near," said Perrote to Amphillis, "and kiss her Grace's hand."

Amphillis did as she was told. The lady, after offering her hand for
the kiss, turned it and gently lifted the girl's face.

"Dost thou serve God?" she said, in a voice which matched her eyes.

"I hope so, Dame," replied Amphillis.

"I hope nothing," said the mysterious lady. "It is eight years since I
knew what hope was. I have hoped in my time as much as ever woman did.
But God took away from me one boon after another, till now He hath left
me desolate. Be thankful, maid, that thou canst yet hope."

She dropped her hand, and went back to her work with a weary sigh.

"Dame," said Perrote, "your Grace wot that her Ladyship desires not that
you talk in such strain to the damsels."

The white face changed as Amphillis had thought it could not change, and
the sunken eyes shot forth fire.

"Her Ladyship!" said the widow. "Who is Avena Foljambe, that she
looketh to queen it over Marguerite of Flanders? They took my lord, and
I lived through it. They took my daughter, and I bare it. They took my
son, my firstborn, and I was silent, though it brake my heart. But by
my troth and faith, they shall not still my soul, nor lay bonds upon my
tongue when I choose to speak. Avena Foljambe! the kinswoman of a
wretched traitor, that met the fate he deserved--why, hath she ten drops
of good blood in her veins? And she looks to lord it over a daughter of
Charlemagne, that hath borne sceptre ere she carried spindle!"

Mistress Perrote's calm even voice checked the flow of angry words.

"Dame, your Grace s