hamber, I found a packet,--how left I know
not, but the French king and his suite, thou rememberest, made our house
almost their home,--and in this packet was a picture, and on its back
these words, Forget not the exile who remembers thee!"

"And that picture was Prince Edward's?"

Anne blushed, and her bosom heaved beneath the slender and high-laced
gorget. After a pause, looking round her, she drew forth a small
miniature, which lay on the heart that beat thus sadly, and placed it in
her sister's hands.

"You see I deceive you not, Isabel. And is not this a fair excuse for--"

She stopped short, her modest nature shrinking from comment upon the
mere beauty that might have won the heart. And fair indeed was the face
upon which Isabel gazed admiringly, in spite of the stiff and rude
art of the limner; full of the fire and energy which characterized the
countenance of the mother, but with a tinge of the same profound and
inexpressible melancholy that gave its charm to the pensive features
of Henry VI.,--a face, indeed, to fascinate a young eye, even if not
associated with such remembrances of romance and pity.

Without saying a word, Isabel gave back the picture; but she pressed the
hand that took it, and Anne was contented to interpret the silence into
sympathy.

"And now you know why I have so often incurred your anger by compassion
for the adherents of Lancaster; and for this, also, Richard of
Gloucester hath been endeared to me,--for fierce and stern as he may
be called, he hath ever been gentle in his mediation for that unhappy
House."

"Because it is his policy to be well with all parties. My poor Anne, I
cannot bid you hope; and yet, should I ever wed with Clarence, it may be
possible--that--that--but you in turn will chide me for ambition."

"How?"

"Clarence is heir to the throne of England, for King Edward has no male
children; and the hour may arrive when the son of Henry of Windsor may
return to his native land, not as sovereign, but as Duke of Lancaster,
and thy hand may reconcile him to the loss of a crown."

"Would love reconcile thee to such a loss, proud Isabel?" said Anne,
shaking her head, and smiling mournfully.

"No," answered Isabel, emphatically.

"And are men less haught than we?" said Anne. "Ah, I know not if I could
love him so well could he resign his rights, or even could he regain
them. It is his position that gives him a holiness in my eyes. And this
love, that must be hopeles