stood you, sir," he said, and he
seemed about to hold out his hand. But it was too late. The old man
turned on him, shaking his shaggy head.

"Never, sir, while I live. The wrong to me is little. I can take my
broken life into a foreign land and die dishonoured and forgotten. But
my other child, my one dear child who has suffered year after year with
me--for the wrong you have done her, I never, never, never will forgive
you. Not for love of you have I spoken as I did to-day, but for the
honour of the Enderbys and because you were the child of your mother."

Two days later at Southampton the old man boarded a little packet-boat
bound for Havre.

III

The years went by again. At last all was changed in England. The
monarchy was restored, and the land was smiling and content. One day
there was a private reading in the Queen's chamber of the palace. The
voice of the reader moved in pleasant yet vibrant modulations:

"The King was now come to a time when his enemies wickedly began to
plot against him secretly and to oppose him in his purposes; which,
in his own mind, were beneficent and magnanimous. From the shire
where his labours had been most unselfish came the first malignant
insult to his person and the first peril to his life, prefiguring
the hellish plots and violence which drove him to his august
martyrdom--"

The King had entered quietly as the lady-in-waiting read this passage to
the Queen, and, attracted by her voice, continued to listen, signifying
to the Queen, by a gesture, that she and her ladies were not to rise.
This was in the time when Charles was yet devoted to his Princess of
Portugal, and while she was yet happy and undisturbed by rumours--or
assurances--of her Lord's wandering affections.

"And what shire was that?" asked the King at that point where the
chronicler spoke of his royal father's "august martyrdom."

"The shire of Lincoln, your Majesty," said the young lady who read,
flushing. Then she rose from her footstool at the Queen's feet, and made
the King an elaborate courtesy.

Charles waved a gentle and playful gesture of dissent from her extreme
formality, and, with a look of admiration, continued:

"My Lord Rippingdale should know somewhat of that 'first violence' of
which you have read, Mistress Falkingham. He is of Lincolnshire."

"He knows all, your Majesty; he was present at that 'first violence.'"

"It would be amusing for Rippingdale to hear thes