to do."

"Nor I either," thought Lady Frances: "but, Barbara, you might
think--or--or--see perhaps----"

"Please you, my lady, I do think a great deal, and the Rev. Mr.
Fleetword said to me only this morning, that I grew in grace as much as
in stature. And, as to seeing, please your ladyship----"

"Pshaw, child! it is not that I mean. Could you not discover?
Besides--the locket! did you ever see that locket in your lady's
possession till this morning?"

"No, madam."

"Perhaps," continued Frances, blushing and stammering at her curiosity,
"it might be well to ascertain something about both mysteries, for your
lady's good."

"I am sure, my lady, I can't tell; but my mistress is very wise, and if
she wished me to know any thing of such like, would direct me herself.
Shall I put any of this ambergris in your ladyship's hair, or do you
better like the musk-rose?"--How perplexing to the cunning is
straightforward simplicity! "Now," thought Lady Frances, "one of the
court waiting-maids would have comprehended my meaning in a moment; and
this wench, with ten times their zeal and real sense, thinks it
downright wicked to pry into her lady's secrets. I wonder my women have
not taught her the court fashions.--You may go to bed, Barbara; light my
night lamp, and give me a book; I do not feel at all sleepy."

Barbara, with great _naivete_, presented to Lady Frances a small Bible
that lay on the dressing-table:--something resembling a smile passed
over the lady's face as she took the volume, but she only observed,
"Give me also that book with the golden clasps; I would fain peruse my
cousin Waller's last hymn.--What an utterly useless thing is that which
is called simplicity!" she said, half aloud, as Barbara closed the door.
"And yet I would sooner trust my life in the hands of that country
damsel, than with the fine ones, who, though arrayed in plain gowns,
flatter corrupt fancies at Whitehall or Hampton!"

CHAPTER V.

By holy Mary! Butts, there's knavery.

SHAKSPEARE.

Having consigned the Lady Frances Cromwell to her perfumed couch, and
the companionship of Waller's sweet and sonorous strains, we leave her
to determine whether the high and mighty Lady Dorothea Sidney, the
Poet's Saccharissa, or the gentle Lady Sophia Murray, the beauteous
Amoret of his idolatry, were most worthy the affection he so generously
bestowed on both. Waller, the most specious flatterer of flattering
courts--the early wor