llowed, and
her name branded with the bar sinister for ever. But as she leaves the
bar, denied and humiliated, her hand is drawn gently into another hand,
and a voice softly asks her--"Am not I better to thee than ten
coronets?"

And so they pass away.

The second dissolving view has disappeared; and the last slowly grows
before our sight.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

A dungeon in the Tower of London. There is only a solitary prisoner,--a
man of fifty years of age, moderate in stature, but very slightly built,
with hands and feet which would be small even in a woman. His face has
never been handsome; there are deep furrows in the forehead, and
something more than time has turned the brown hair grey, and given to
the strongly-marked features that pensive, weary look, which his
countenance always wears when in repose. Ask his name of his gaolers,
and they will say it is "Sir Henry of Lancaster, the usurper;" but ask
it of himself, and a momentary flash lights up the sunken eyes as he
answers, "I am the King."

Neither Pharisee nor Sadducee is Henry the Sixth. He is not a Lollard,
simply because he never knew what Lollardism was. During his reign it
lay dormant--the old Wycliffite plant violently uprooted, the new
Lutheran shoots not yet visible above the ground. He was one of the
very few men divinely taught without ostensible human agency,--within
whom God is pleased to dwell by His Spirit at an age so early that the
dawn of the heavenly instinct cannot be perceived. From the follies,
the cruelties, and the iniquities of Romanism he shrank with that
Heaven-born instinct; and by the dim flickering light which he had, he
walked with God. His way led over very rough ground, full of rugged
stones, on which his weary feet were bruised and torn. But it was the
way Home.

And now, to-night, on the 22nd of May, 1471, the prisoner is very worn
and weary. He sits with a book before him--a small square volume, in
illuminated Latin, with delicately-wrought borders, and occasional
full-page illuminations; a Psalter, which came into his hands from those
of another prisoner in like case with himself, for the book once
belonged to Richard of Bordeaux [Note 2]. He turns slowly over the
leaves, now and then reading a sentence aloud:--sentences all of which
indicate a longing for home and rest.

"`My soul is also sore vexed; but Thou, O Lord, how long?'

"`Lord, how long