t lacked but
a season of sunshine, and to that I looked forward in hope. How little
did I know that the sunshine was but making it ready for the harvest,
meet for Heaven, nearer God!

"O my love, my own darling Frances! shall I say it is hard to think of
you in Heaven? Shall I say it is hard that, in the stead of your coming
to me, I must now go to you? Shall I grieve in the first hour of my
hope and England's, that God saw it best to take you gently to Himself,
ere that hope could do more than to throw the beam of his rising on your
dying pillow?

"You have seen your beloved father, my dear master. And I do not think
he told you that the Lord dealt ungently with him."

Four hours earlier, as I was sewing in my chamber, Barbara came to me.

"Mistress," said she, "below is Mrs Basset, and with her two ladies in
doole."

Methought these might perhaps be the Lady Elizabeth Jobson and Mr James
Basset's widow, whom she had brought with her; and down went I to greet
Philippa. But I found the two ladies were strangers; at the least I
knew not their faces. I greeted Philippa, and sat down, when I had
louted to the others; but to mine amaze one of the ladies saith--

"Mrs Avery, have you forgot Kate Ashley?"

I rose in astonishment, and begged my Lady Ashley's pardon, for of a
surety I had not known her. So I took her by the hand and kissed her;
and was about to sit down again, when, with a smile that I could scarce
fail to know, the other stranger saith--

"And hath Isoult Barry forgot Anne Basset?"

"My darling Nan!" cried I, "that I should not have known _thee_."

"Nay," saith she, again with her own sweet smile, "'tis no marvel, dear
heart, seeing thou hast not seen me for sixteen years." For I had
missed seeing her in the procession at Queen Mary's coronation.

Then after we had embraced, Philippa said--

"I scantly know, Isoult, if thou wilt be glad to see us, considering the
ill news we bring."

"Why, Philippa, what ill news?" asked I. "I heard of thy brother's
death,--Mr James,--and writ to thee thereupon,"--for methought Philippa
had not received my letter.

"Ay, I had thy letter, and I thank thee for it," answered she. "But
hast heard aught further?"

"No," said I, fearfully. "What is it, Philippa?"

"Kate," she pursued, "hath brought us woeful news from Potheridge--the
death of Frances, twenty days ago."

"Frances?" I well-nigh startled at mine own cry.

"An ill time," addeth Philipp