ht, brisk and
active, though her hair was milk-white; but her eyes were of undimmed
azure, and her complexion still retained a beauteous pink and white. She
was highly educated, and had been the friend of Margaret Roper and her
sisters, often sharing their walks in the bright Chelsea garden. Indeed,
the musk-rose in her own favourite nook at Hurst Walwyn was cherished as
the gift of Sir Thomas himself.

Near her sat sister, Cecily St. John, a professed nun at Romsey till
her twenty-eight year, when, in the dispersion of convents, her sister's
home had received her. There had she continued, never exposed to tests
of opinion, but pursuing her quiet course according to her Benedictine
rule, faithfully keeping her vows, and following the guidance of the
chaplain, a college friend of Bishop Ridley, and rejoicing in the use of
the vernacular prayers and Scriptures. When Queen Mary had sent for her
to consider of the revival of convents, her views had been found to have
so far diverged from those of the Queen that Lord Walwyn was thankful
to have her safe at home again; and yet she fancied herself firm to
old Romsey doctrine. She was not learned, like Lady Walwyn, but her
knowledge in all needlework and confectionery was consummate, so that
half the ladies in Dorset and Wilts longed to send their daughters to
be educated at Hurst Walwyn. Her small figure and soft cheeks had
the gentle contour of a dove's form, nor had she lost the conventual
serenity of expression; indeed it was curious that, let Lady Walwyn
array her as she would, whatever she wore bore a nunlike air. Her silken
farthingales hung like serge robes, her ruffs looked like mufflers, her
coifs like hoods, even necklaces seemed rosaries, and her scrupulous
neatness enhanced the pure unearthly air of all belonging to her.

Eager and lively, fair and handsome, sat the Baronne de Ribaumont,
or rather, since the higher title had been laid aside, Dame Annora
Thistlewood. The health of M. de Ribaumont had been shattered at St.
Quentin, and an inclement night of crossing the Channel had brought on
an attack on the lungs, from which he only rallied enough to amaze
his English friends at finding the gay dissipated young Frenchman they
remembered, infinitely more strict and rigid than themselves. He was
never able to leave the house again after his first arrival at Hurst
Walwyn, and sank under the cold winds of the next spring, rejoicing
to leave his wife and son, not indee