to the complaints of old Lot's wife from the village, and
gravely considering whether the said Lot's rheumatism would be the
better for a basin of viper broth,--Sir Thomas Enville, who was
strolling in the garden, perceived two riders coming up to the house.
They were evidently a gentleman and his attendant serving-man, and as
soon as they approached near enough for recognition, Sir Thomas hurried
quickly to meet them. The Lord Strange, heir of Lathom and Knowsley,
must not be kept waiting.

Only about thirty years had passed over the head of Ferdinand Stanley,
Lord Strange, yet his handsome features wore an expression of the
deepest melancholy. People who were given to signs and auguries said
that it presaged an early and violent death. And when, eight years
later, after only one year's tenancy of the earldom of Derby, he died of
a rapid, terrible, and mysterious disease, strange to all the physicians
who saw him, the augurs, though a little disappointed that he was not
beheaded, found their consolation in the conviction that he had been
undoubtedly bewitched. His father, Earl Henry, seems to have been a
cool, crafty time-server, who had helped to do the Duke of Somerset to
death, more than thirty years before, and one of whose few good actions
was his intercession with Bishop Bonner in favour of his kinsman, the
martyr Roger Holland. His mother was the great heiress Margaret
Clifford, who had inherited, before she was fifteen years of age,
one-third of the estates of Duke Charles of Suffolk, the wealthiest man
in England.

"'Save you, my good Lord!" was Sir Thomas's greeting. "You be right
heartily welcome unto my poor house."

"I have seen poorer," replied Lord Strange with a smile.

"Pray your Lordship, go within."

After a few more amenities, in the rather ponderous style of the
sixteenth century, Sir Thomas ceremoniously conducted his guest to Lady
Enville's boudoir. She sat, resplendent in blue satin slashed with
yellow, turning over some ribbons which Barbara Polwhele was displaying
for her inspection. The ribbons were at once dismissed when the noble
visitor appeared, and Barbara was desired to "do the thing she wot of in
the little chamber."

The little chamber was a large, light closet, opening out of the
boudoir, with a window looking on the garden; and the doorway between
the rooms was filled by a green curtain. Barbara's work was to make up
into shoulder-knots certain lengths of ribbon alr