his, but somehow she felt she couldn't
bear to be without it, such a habit had it become. The darkness was
rapidly drawing in. Sophie paused and spoke to a frog she saw in a
puddle; it didn't answer, so she passed on.

Suddenly she heard from the direction of London the sound of hoofs!
"Dick Turpin!" her heart cried, and she at once commenced to climb an
elm the better to see him pass; but it was not Dick Turpin--it was a
shorter man with a beard. On seeing the intrepid girl, he reined in his
roan chestnut-spotted filly. "Hi!" he cried. Sophie slowly climbed down.
"Who are you?" she asked, after she had dusted the bark from her fichu.
"Henry the Eighth!" cried the man with a ready laugh, and, leaping off
his charger, took her in his arms. "Oh, sire!" she said, and would have
swooned but that his strength upheld her. History tells us little about
that interview. Suffice to say that later on Sophie walked gravely back
to Esher proper, alas! without her basket, but carrying proudly in her
hand a brooch cunningly wrought into the shape of a raspberry.

It is known as an authentic fact that Sophie never saw her Royal lover
again. He rode away that night, perhaps to Woking, perhaps to Virginia
Water--who knows?

Sophie lived on in Esher until the age of thirty-nine, when she was
taken to London and flung into the Tower, where she remained a closely
guarded prisoner for a year. Every one loved her and used to visit her
in her cell. She was exceedingly industrious, and managed to get through
quite a lot of tatting during her captivity.

The day of her execution dawned fair over St. Paul's Cathedral. Sophie
in her little cell rose early and turned her fichu. "Why do you do
that?" asked the gaoler. "Because I am going to meet my end," Sophie
gently replied. The man staggered dumbly away, fighting down the lump
which would come in his hardened throat.

When the time came Sophie left her cell with a light step. She walked to
Tower Hill amidst a body of Beefeaters. "The way is long," she said
bravely. Every Beefeater bowed his head.

There was a dense crowd round the scaffold. Sophie heeded them not; she
ran girlishly up the steps to where the executioner was leaning on his
axe. "Where do I put my head?" she asked simply. The executioner pointed
to the block. "There!" said he. "Where did you think you put it?" Sophie
reproved him with a look and knelt down. Then she gazed sweetly at the
gaoler, who for a year had stinted her i