ton's Needle, a right pithy,
pleasant, and merry comedy."

And thus originated the first English comedy, by John Heywood, fool to
King Henry the Eighth. [Footnote: This comedy was first printed in the
year 1661, but it was represented at Christ College fully a hundred
years previously. Who was the author of it is not known with certainty;
but it is possible that the writer of it was John Heywood, the
epigrammatist and court-jester.--See Dramaturgic oder Theorie und
Geschichte der dramatischen Kunst, von Theodore Mundt, vol i, p. 809.
Flogel's Geschichte der Hofnarren, p. 399.]

CHAPTER XVIII. LADY JANE.

All was quiet in the palace of Whitehall. Even the servants on guard in
the vestibule of the king's bedchamber had been a long time slumbering,
for the king had been snoring for several hours; and this majestical
sound was, to the dwellers in the palace, the joyful announcement that
for one fine night they were exempt from service, and might be free men.

The queen also had long since retired to her apartments, and dismissed
her ladies at an unusually early hour. She felt, she said, wearied by
the chase, and much needed rest. No one, therefore, was to disturb her,
unless the king should order it.

But the king, as we have said, slept, and the queen had no reason to
fear that her night's rest would be disturbed.

Deep silence reigned in the palace. The corridors were empty and
deserted, the apartments all silent.

Suddenly a figure tripped along softly and cautiously through the long
feebly lighted corridor. She was wrapped in a black mantle; a veil
concealed her face.

Scarcely touching the floor with her feet, she floated away, and glided
down a little staircase. Now she stops and listens. There is nothing to
hear; all is noiseless and still.

Then, on again. Now she wings her steps. For here she is sure of not
being heard. It is the unoccupied wing of the castle of Whitehall.
Nobody watches her here.

On, then, on, adown that corridor, descending those stairs. There she
stops before a door leading into the summer-house. She puts her ear to
the door, and listens. Then she claps her hands three times.

The sound is reechoed from the other side.

"Oh, he is there, he is there!" Forgotten now are her cares, forgotten
her pains and tears. He is there. She has him again.

She throws open the door. It is dark indeed in the chamber, but she sees
him, for the eye of love pierces the night; and if the se