Lovelace when the
twilight shades come down. I know a fair gentleman who sings his ballads
most sweetly. You, too, had you heard him, would have listened a second
tune:--

'True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field,
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword--a horse--a shield.

'Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, shall adore--
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more!'

But I forget, the theme is a forbidden one; and I see, Constance, you do
not like my poet, and I have a mind not to admire yours! Ah! poor
Lovelace! he might have been my laureate."

"I thought the Lady Frances sighed no longer for a thorny crown."

"I may surely love the poetry of a Cavalier without wishing to be the
bride of Prince Charlie. My father's fiat has gone forth against my
royal lover's offer, and so I shall be the wife of some staid sober
Covenanter, I suppose; that is, if I follow my father's wishes, and
marry Will Dulton."

"Better than be the wedded mistress of a dissolute man," said Constance,
firmly. "Believe me, Charles Stuart has all his father's weakness
without his father's virtues."

"Well, be it so," replied Frances Cromwell: "I did not care; but
methinks I should have liked the garniture of a crown and the grasp of a
sceptre. You should have been my first maid of honour.--But your pardon,
lady fair--you will be the first married, if I can judge from Sir
Willmott Burrell's earnestness of late." As she spoke, Constance Cecil
grew deadly pale; and, to conceal her emotion, sat upon the step of the
Gothic temple before which they had been standing for some minutes.
Frances did not observe the change, but heedlessly continued:--"Ah! it
is happy for those who can marry as they will, and him they love; to
whom the odious Sound of 'state necessity' is utterly unknown."

"And think you," said Constance, in a voice struggling for composure,
"think you so poorly of me, that I can _will_ to marry such as Burrell,
of my own free choice! Oh! Frances, Frances! would to Heaven the same
grave had closed over me that closed over my mother!" She clasped her
hands with an earnestness amounting to agony, and there came an
expression over her features which forbade all trifling. Frances
Cromwell was a warm, cheerful, and affectionate girl; but to her it was
not given to understand the depth or the refinement of minds such as
that of her friend. Her own h