it to Hampton Court,
and her remembrance of its associations was still keen and vivid. She
described its old-world garden by the side of the Thames, where the
little King Edward VI. must often have roamed with his pretty cousin
Jane: the two wonderful ill-starred children, playing for a brief hour
in happy unconsciousness of the fate that faced them. What did they talk
about, she asked, as they stood on the paved terrace and watched the
river hurrying by? Plato, perchance, and his philosophy, or the
marvelous geography-book with woodcuts of foreign beasts that had been
specially printed for the young king's use. Did they compare notes about
their tutors? Jane would certainly hold a brief for her much-loved Mr.
Elmer, who, in sharp contrast to her parents' severity, taught her so
gently and patiently that she grudged the time which was not spent in
his presence. Edward might bemoan the ill-luck of his whipping-boy, who
had to bear the floggings which Court etiquette denied to the royal
shoulders, and perhaps would declare that when he was grown up, and
could make the laws himself, no children should be beaten for badly said
lessons, and Jane would agree with him, and then they would pick the red
damask roses that Cardinal Wolsey had planted, and walk back under the
shadow of the clipped yew hedge to eat cherries and junket in the room
that looked out towards the sunset.

Winona had warmed to her work. Her imagination, always her strongest
faculty, completely carried her away. She pictured her heroine's life,
not from the outside, as historians would chronicle it, a mere string of
events and dates, but from the inner view of a girl's standpoint. Did
Jane wish to leave her Plato for the bustle of a Court? Did she care for
the gay young husband forced upon her by her ambitious parents? Surely
for her gentle nature a crown held few allurements. The clouds were
gathering thick and fast, and burst in a waterspout of utter ruin.
Jane's courage was calm and hopeful as that of Socrates in the dialogues
she had loved.

"... your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,
Made you of spirit, fire and dew."

quoted Winona enthusiastically. Browning always stirred her blood, and
threw her into poetical channels. She cast about in her mind for any
other appropriate verses.

"Ah, broken is the golden bowl, the spirit gone for ever,
Let the bell toll--a saintly soul floats on the Stygian r