out paying a fine to the master. Worse things than these
are told of some, for of course the condition of the serf largely
depended on the disposition of his owner.

The journey from Oakham to Westminster was a pleasant change to all the
bower-maidens but one, and that was the one selected to travel with her
mistress in the litter. Each was secretly, if not openly, hoping not to
be that one; and it was with no little trepidation that Clarice received
the news that this honour was to be conferred on her. She discovered,
however, on the journey, that scolding was not the perpetual occupation
of the Countess. She spent part of every day in telling her beads, part
in reading books woefully dry to the apprehension of Clarice, and part
in sleeping, which not unfrequently succeeded the beads. Conversation
she never attempted, and Clarice, who dared not speak till she was
spoken to, began to entertain a fear of losing the use of her tongue.
Otherwise she was grave and quiet enough, poor girl! for she was not
naturally talkative. She was very sorry to part with Heliet, and she
felt, almost without knowing why, some apprehension concerning the
future. Sentiments of this sort were quite unknown to such girls as
Elaine, Diana, and Roisia, while with Olympias they arose solely from
delicate health. But Clarice was made of finer porcelain, and she could
not help mournfully feeling that she had not a friend in the world. Her
father and mother were not friends; they were strangers who might be
expected to do what they thought best for her, just as the authorities
of a workhouse might take conscientious care in the apprenticing of the
workhouse girls. But no more could be expected, and Clarice felt it.
If there had only been, anywhere in the world, somebody who loved her!
There was no such probability to which it was safe to look forward.
Possibly, some twenty or thirty years hence, some of her children might
love her. As for her husband, he was simply an embarrassing future
certainty, who--with almost equal certainty--would not care a straw
about her. That was only to be expected. The squire who liked Roisia
would be pretty sure to get Diana; while the girl who admired Reginald
de Echingham was safe to fall to Fulk de Chaucombe. Things always were
arranged so in this world. Perhaps, thought Clarice, those girls were
the happiest who did not care, who took life as it came, and made all
the fun they could out of it. But sh