and had never had a friend, save this wild trooper, perhaps, and
Father Holt; and had a fond and affectionate heart, tender to weakness,
that would fain attach itself to somebody, and did not seem at rest
until it had found a friend who would take charge of it.

The instinct which led Henry Esmond to admire and love the gracious
person, the fair apparition of whose beauty and kindness had so moved
him when he first beheld her, became soon a devoted affection and
passion of gratitude, which entirely filled his young heart, that
as yet, except in the case of dear Father Holt, had had very little
kindness for which to be thankful. O Dea certe, thought he, remembering
the lines out of the AEneas which Mr. Holt had taught him. There seemed,
as the boy thought, in every look or gesture of this fair creature,
an angelical softness and bright pity--in motion or repose she seemed
gracious alike; the tone of her voice, though she uttered words ever so
trivial, gave him a pleasure that amounted almost to anguish. It cannot
be called love, that a lad of twelve years of age, little more than a
menial, felt for an exalted lady, his mistress: but it was worship.
To catch her glance, to divine her errand and run on it before she had
spoken it; to watch, follow, adore her; became the business of his life.
Meanwhile, as is the way often, his idol had idols of her own, and never
thought of or suspected the admiration of her little pigmy adorer.

My lady had on her side her three idols: first and foremost, Jove
and supreme ruler, was her lord, Harry's patron, the good Viscount of
Castlewood. All wishes of his were laws with her. If he had a headache,
she was ill. If he frowned, she trembled. If he joked, she smiled and
was charmed. If he went a-hunting, she was always at the window to see
him ride away, her little son crowing on her arm, or on the watch till
his return. She made dishes for his dinner: spiced wine for him: made
the toast for his tankard at breakfast: hushed the house when he slept
in his chair, and watched for a look when he woke. If my lord was not a
little proud of his beauty, my lady adored it. She clung to his arm as
he paced the terrace, her two fair little hands clasped round his great
one; her eyes were never tired of looking in his face and wondering at
its perfection. Her little son was his son, and had his father's look
and curly brown hair. Her daughter Beatrix was his daughter, and had his
eyes--were there ever