g, I have this day been joined in bands of
holy marriage with her Highness, the Duchess of B----, in
France. At one time I had hope of favour with your good
Lordship's daughter, neither could I have desired more
complete promotion. But the service of the kingdom and the
doubt of my own desert have forced me, in these troublous
times, to forego mine own ambition. Our lord the King
enjoins you with his Royal commendation, to bring your
forces toward Bristowe by the day of St. Valentine. There
shall I be in hope to meet your Lordship, and again find
pleasure in such goodly company. Until then I am
your Lordship's poor and humble servant,

"AUBYN AUBERLEY."

Lord de Wichehalse made his mind up not to let his daughter know until
the following morning what a heavy blow had fallen on her faith and
fealty. But, as evil chance would have it, the damsels of the house--and
most of all the gentle cook-maid--could not but observe the rider's
state of mind toward them. He managed to eat his supper in a dark state
of parenthesis; but after that they plied him with some sentimental
mixtures, and, being only a man at best, although a very trusty one, he
could not help the rise of manly wrath at every tumbler. So, in spite
of dry experience and careworn discretion, at last he let the woman know
the whole of what himself knew. Nine good females crowded round him,
and, of course, in their kind bosoms every word of all his story
germinated ninety-fold.

Hence it came to pass that, after floods of tears in council and
stronger language than had right to come from under aprons, Frida's
nurse (the old herb-woman, now called "Mother Eyebright") was appointed
to let her know that very night the whole of it. Because my lord might
go on mooning for a month about it, betwixt his love of his daughter and
his quiet way of taking things; and all that while the dresses might be
cut, and trimmed, and fitted to a size and fashion all gone by before
there came a wedding.

Mother Eyebright so was called both from the brightness of her eyes and
her faith in that little simple flower, the euphrasia. Though her own
love-tide was over, and the romance of life had long relapsed into the
old allegiance to the hour of dinner, yet her heart was not grown tough
to the troubles of the young ones; therefore all that she could do was
done, but it was little.

Frida, being almost tired with the