had robbed her face of its fair complexion, and before sorrow and
disappointment had left their trace upon it.

The Countess of Pembroke was always her mother's chief sympathiser in joy
and sorrow. She retired with her behind the glass screen where the Queen,
in her visits to Penshurst, always chose to summon her host, or any of her
ministers for a private conversation or flirtation, as the case might be.
By the opening of a panel of white Venetian glass, those who were seated
behind the screen could watch unseen what was passing in the room beyond.

'You look weary, dear mother,' Lady Pembroke said--'weary and sad. Methinks
pride in our Philip should overrule grief at his loss. He has been well
versed in the manners and customs of foreign courts. He is a great
favourite, and I hope to see him return with fresh laurels at no distant
date.'

'Ah, Mary! you have, as I said to my brother but an hour ago, you have a
future; for me there is only a short span left. Yet I can rejoice in the
present bliss of seeing Philip a proud husband and father. There was a
time when I feared he would never turn his thoughts towards another woman.'

'And I, sweet mother, always felt sure he would be the victor he has
proved. Look at him now!' As she spoke Sir Philip was seen coming down the
room with Lady Frances on his arm, Sir Fulke Greville on the other side,
evidently some jest passing between them, for Sir Philip's face was
sparkling with smiles, and his silvery laugh reached the ears of those
behind the screen as he passed.

'Yes, he has the air of a man who is happy, doubtless,' his mother said;
'but see your father, Mary, how he halts, as he comes leaning on Sir
Francis Walsingham's arm. He has the mien of a man many a year older than
he is, if age be counted by years.'

'Dear father!' Mary said, with a sigh. 'But now, watch Robert and Thomas.
They are each leading a lady to the ballroom. Little Tom, as I must still
call him, looks well. He is all agog to be off with Philip; he must tarry
till the winter is over. Robert is of a stronger build, and can weather the
frosts and bitter cold of the Low Countries.'

Lady Pembroke was now watching another couple who were passing on to the
ballroom. The Earl of Leicester had often been attracted by the beauty of
Lucy Forrester, and had now done her the honour of begging her to dance
with him. But Lucy shrank from the open admiration and flattery of this
brilliant courtier. While other