enever
she had mentioned his name in the narrative, it was with a slight
inflection of scorn, which caused the King to smile; and when she spoke
of the ruin of Enderby House, her brother's death and her father's years
of exile, tears came into the Queen's eyes, and the King nodded his head
in sympathy.

Sir Richard Mowbray, with face aflame, watched her closely. As she
finished her story he drew aside to where she could not see him without
turning round. But Lord Rippingdale she saw with ease, and she met his
eyes firmly, and one should say, with some malicious triumph, were she
not a woman.

"My lord Rippingdale," said the King, slowly and bitingly, "what shall
be done to the man whom the King delighteth to honour?"

"Were I Mordecai I could better answer that question, Sir," was my
Lord's reply.

"Perhaps my Lord Rippingdale could answer for Haman, then," returned his
Majesty.

"My imagination is good, but not fifty cubits high, Sir."

The answer pleased the King. For he ever turned life into jest--his
sorrows and his joys. He rose motioning towards the door, and Lord
Rippingdale passed out just behind him, followed by Sir Richard Mowbray,
who stole a glance at the young chronicler as he went. She saw him, then
recognised him, and flushed scarlet.

She did not dare, however, to let him come to her. He understood, and he
went his way after the King and Lord Rippingdale.

In all the years that had passed since the night he had helped her
father and herself to escape from Enderby House; since he aided them
to leave their hiding-place on the coast and escape to Holland, she had
never forgotten his last words to her, the laughing look of his eyes,
the pressure of his hand. Many a time since she had in her own mind
thought of him as she had heard her father call him, even as "Happy Dick
Mowbray!" and the remembrance of his joyous face had been a help to her
in all her sufferings. His brown hair was now streaked with grey, but
the light in the face was the same; there was the same alertness and
buoyant health in the figure and the same row of laughing white teeth.

As she stood watching the departing figure, she scarcely knew that the
Queen was preparing to go to her bed-chamber. She became aware of it
definitely by the voice of her Majesty, now somewhat petulant.

Two hours later she was walking alone in one of the galleries when,
hearing a gentle step behind her, she turned and saw the King. She made
an obeisa