ired at what time she was to die.
"To-morrow, at eight," was the reply; and the earls then left the
room. On their departure, Mary called her women, and bade them hasten
supper, that she might have time to arrange her affairs. "Come, come,
Jane Kennedy," said she, "cease your weeping, and be busy. Did I not
warn you, my children, that it would come to this? and now, blessed be
God, it has come, and fear and sorrow are at an end. Weep not, but
rejoice rather that your poor mistress is so near the end of her
troubles. Dry your tears, then, and let us pray together." Some time
was spent in her devotions; she then supped with cheerfulness. She
next distributed various articles from her wardrobe among her
attendants, with a kind expression for each. She then wrote her last
will, which is still extant, and consists of four pages, closely
written, in a neat, firm hand. Not one person was forgotten who had
any claims on her gratitude or her remembrance. She also wrote several
letters; but these, it is said, are blotted with her tears. It was her
custom to have her women read to her, at night, a portion of the
"Lives of the Saints;" and this last night she would not omit it, but
made Jane Kennedy select a portion. She chose the life entitled the
"Good Thief," which treats of that beautiful and affecting example of
dying faith and divine compassion. "Alas!" said Mary, "he was indeed a
very great sinner, but not so great as I am. May my Savior, in memory
of His passion, have mercy on me, as he had on him!"

At the hour appointed, the sheriff entered her room, and proceeding to
the altar, where the queen was kneeling, informed her that all was
ready. She rose, and saying simply, "Let us go," proceeded towards the
door, on reaching which, her attendants were informed that they were
not to accompany her. A scene of the most distressing character now
took place; but they were at last torn from her, and locked up in
the apartment. Mary proceeded alone down the great staircase, at
the foot of which she was received by the two earls, who were
struck with the perfect tranquillity and unaffected grace with which
she met them. She was dressed in black satin, matronly but richly,
and with more studied care than she was commonly accustomed to
bestow. At the bottom of the staircase she was also met by her old
servant, Sir Andrew Melvil, waiting to take his last farewell.
Flinging himself on his knees, he bitterly lamented it should have
falle