istory is not very enlightening as to how long Julius Fenchurch-Streete
lived with Sarah Twig--poor Sarah, the bubble of her romance soon was to
be pricked. For three weeks they lived gloriously, radiantly, at the old
sign of "The Cod and Haddock" in Egham. "My heart is a pool of ecstasy,"
she wrote in her diary. Pitiful pool, so soon to be drained of its joy!

Then the storm-clouds gathered, the sun withdrew its gold. Julius rode
away--Sarah was alone, alone in Egham, her love unblessed by any sort of
church, no name for the child to come--a sorry, sorry plight. The buxom
proprietress of "The Cod and Haddock," little dreaming her real
identity, set her to work. Work! for those fair hands, those
inexpressibly filbert nails!

Was it the sudden relenting of malleable fate that caused the Merry
Monarch to come riding blithely through sleepy Egham, followed by his
equerry, Lord Francis Tunnell-Penge, and several of his suite? Halting
outside the inn, Bloodworthy relates that his Majesty was immediately
struck by a winsome face at an upper window. "Lud!" he cried
laconically, and dismounted, taking several dogs from his hat as he did
so, and one from his pocket; for he was devoted to animals, Bloodworthy
goes on to say, and often spent days stroking their soft ears
abstractedly. Then, seized by a sudden inspiration, he inquired of the
landlady as to whose was the face he had seen. In a trice the story was
told--the King waved his hand imperiously and took a pinch of snuff.
"Send her to me," he said.

When Sarah entered, all hot from her manual labours, Charles started to
his feet. Here was no scullion, no plaything of an idle hour. Here was
breeding, dignity and beauty. Ah! Beauty! Probably these cold shores
will never again shelter beauty like Sarah Twig's. On seeing the King
she curtsied low. He bowed with the stately elegance for which he was
famed.

"Your name?" he asked.

The glorious vision veiled her eyes.

"I have no name, sire--now." With these words, spoken from a heart
surcharged with bitterest sorrow, the poor woman swooned away.

"Lud!" remarked the King irritably, "the girl must have a name. You must
marry her, Francis--she shall be Lady Tunnell-Penge." Then the impulsive
monarch stooped, and, opening a locket on the unconscious woman's
breast, read the name Sarah in blue diamonds on an opaque background.
"But," he added softly under his breath, "I shall know her only as
'Winsome Sal'!"

Thus Sarah Tw