ery word; and Gardiner
and Douglas could not examine the queen's manner of life each day and
hour more suspiciously than she herself did.

She saw the sword that hung daily over her head; and, thanks to
her prudence and presence of mind, thanks to the ever-thoughtful
watchfulness and cunning of her friend Heywood! she had still known how
to avoid the falling of that sword.

Since that fatal ride in the wood of Epping Forest, she had not again
spoken to Thomas Seymour alone; for Catharine very well knew that
everywhere, whithersoever she turned her steps, some spying eye might
follow her, some listener's ear might be concealed, which might hear
her words, however softly whispered, and repeat them where they might be
interpreted into a sentence of death against her.

She had, therefore, renounced the pleasure of speaking to her lover
otherwise than before witnesses, and of seeing him otherwise than in the
presence of her whole court.

What need had she either for secret meetings? What mattered it to her
pure and innocent heart that she was not permitted to be alone with him?
Still she might see him, and drink courage and delight from the sight
of his haughty and handsome face; still she might be near him, and could
listen to the music of his voice, and intoxicate her heart with his
fine, euphonious and vigorous discourse.

Catharine, the woman of eight-and-twenty, had preserved the enthusiasm
and innocence of a young girl of fourteen. Thomas Seymour was her first
love; and she loved him with that purity and guileless warmth which is
indeed peculiar to the first love only.

It sufficed her, therefore, to see him; to be near him; to know that
he loved her; that he was true to her; that all his thoughts and wishes
belonged to her, as hers to him.

And that she knew. For there ever remained to her the sweet enjoyment of
his letters--of those passionately written avowals of his love. If
she was not permitted to say also to him how warmly and ardently she
returned this love, yet she could write it to him.

It was John Heywood, the true and discreet friend, that brought her
these letters, and bore her answers to him, stipulating, as a reward for
this dangerous commission, that they both should regard him as the sole
confidant of their love; that both should burn up the letters which he
brought them. He had not been able to hinder Catharine from this unhappy
passion, but wanted at least to preserve her from the fatal con