The Lion's Whelp. Barr Amelia E.

night I smell it – I smell miles of it – and then I know my angel has been to see me, and that some good thing will tread in her footsteps."

      "I ever think of rosemary for burials," said Jane.

      "And I for bridals, and for happiness; but it

      "'Grows for two ends, it matters not at all,

      Be it for bridal, or for burial.'"

      "That is true, "answered Jane. "I remember hearing my father say that when Queen Elizabeth made her joyful entry into London, every one carried rosemary posies; and that Her Grace kept in her hand, from the Fleet Bridge to Westminster, a branch of rosemary that had been given her by a poor old woman."

      "That was a queen indeed! Had she reigned this day, there had been no Cromwell."

      "Who can tell that? England had to come out of the Valley and Shadow of Popery, and it is the Lord General's sword that shall lead her into the full light – there is something round your neck, Matilda, that looks as if you were still in darkness."

      Then Matilda laughed and put her hand to her throat, and slipped into her bosom a rosary of coral and gold beads. "It was my mother's," she said; "you know that she was of the Old Profession, and I wear it for her sake."

      "It is said that Charles Stuart also wears one for his mother's sake."

      "It is a good man that remembers a good mother; and the King is a good man."

      "There is no king in England now, Matilda, and no question of one."

      "There is a king, whether we will or no. The king never dies; the crown is the crown, though it hang on a hedge bush."

      "That is frivolous nonsense, Matilda. The Parliament is king."

      "Oh, the pious gang! This is a strange thing that has come to pass in our day, Jane – that an anointed king should be deposed and slain. Who ever heard the like?"

      "Read your histories, Matilda. It is a common thing for tyrannical kings to have their executioners. Charles Stuart suffered lawfully and by consent of Parliament."

      "A most astonishing difference!" answered Matilda, drawing on her gloves impatiently, "to be murdered with consent of Parliament! that is lawful; without consent of Parliament, that is very wicked indeed. But even as a man you might pity him."

      "Pity him! Not I! He has his just reward. He bound himself for his enemies with cords of his own spinning. But you will not see the truth, Matilda – "

      "So then, it is useless wasting good Puritan breath on me. Dear Jane, can we never escape this subject? Here, in this sweet room, why do we talk of tragedies?"

      Jane was closing the still-room door as this question was asked, and she took her friend by the arm and said, "Come, and I will show you a room in which another weak, wicked king prefigured the calamity that came to his successor in our day." Then she opened a door in the same tower, and they were in a chamber that was, even on this warm harvest day, cold and dark. For the narrow loophole window had not been changed, as in the still-room, for wide lattices; and the place was mouldy and empty and pervaded by an old, unhappy atmosphere.

      "What a wretched room! It will give me an ague," said Matilda.

      "It was to this room King John came, soon after his barons had compelled him to sign the Great Charter of Liberties. And John was only an earlier Charles Stuart – just as tyrannical – just as false – and his barons were his parliament. He lay on the floor where you are now standing, and in his passion bit and gnawed the green rushes with which it was strewed, and cursed the men who he said had 'made themselves twenty-four over-kings.' So you see that it is not a new thing for Englishmen to war against their kings."

      "Poor kings!"

      "They should behave themselves better."

      "Let us go away. I am shivering." Then as they turned from the desolate place, she said with an attempt at indifference, "When did you hear from Cymlin? And pray in what place must I remember him now?"

      "I know not particularly. Wherever the Captain-General is, there Cymlin Swaffham is like to be."

      "At Ely, they were talking of Cromwell as near to Edinburgh."

      "Then we shall hear tidings of him soon. He goes not anywhere for nothing."

      "Why do you not ask after Stephen's fortune – good or bad?"

      "I did not at the moment think of Stephen. When Cromwell is in the mind 'tis impossible to find him fit company. It is he, and he only."

      "Yet if ever Stephen de Wick gets a glimpse of home, it is not home to him until he has been at Swaffham."

      Jane made no answer, and they walked silently to the door where Matilda's carriage was waiting. Mrs. Swaffham joined them as Matilda was about to leave, and the girl said, "I had come near to forgetting something I wished to tell you. One of those men called Quakers was preaching his new religion at Squire Oliver Leder's last night. There was much disputing about him to-day."

      "I wonder then," said Mrs. Swaffham, "that we were not asked. I have desired to hear some of these men. It is said they are mighty in the Scriptures, and that they preach peace, which – God knows – is the doctrine England now needs."

      "Many were there. I heard of the Flittons and Mossleys and the Traffords and others. But pray what is the good of preaching 'peace' when Cromwell is going up and down the land with a drawn sword. It is true also that these Quakers themselves always bring quarreling and persecution with them."

      "That is not their fault," said Jane. "The preacher can only give the Word, and if people will quarrel about it and rend it to and fro, that is not the preacher's fault. But, indeed, all testify that these people called Quakers quake at nothing, and are stiff and unbendable in their own way."

      "So are the Independents, and the Anabaptists, and the Presbyterians, and the Fifth Monarchy Men, and the Root and Branch Men, and – "

      "The Papists, and the Episcopalians," added Jane.

      "Faith! No one can deny it."

      "What said Lady Heneage of the preacher?" asked Mrs. Swaffham.

      "She thought he ought to be put in the stocks; and her sister Isabel said that he was a good man, and had the root of the matter in him. Madame Flitton was of the same opinion, though she did not feel at liberty to approve entirely. Others considered him full of temper and very forward, and the argument was hot, and quite Christian-like. I heard that he was to preach again at Deeping Den. Now I must make what haste I can; my father will be angry at my delay. Good-bye! faithful till we meet again."

      "She says 'faithful,' yet knows not how to be faithful."

      Mrs. Swaffham did not answer Jane's remark. She was thinking of the Quaker sermon at Oliver Leder's, and wondering why they had not been asked to hear it. "We ought to have been asked," she said to Jane as they turned into the house. "Leaving out Swaffham was bad treatment, and when I say bad, I mean bad. Did Matilda take the electuary for her father?"

      "She was very little in earnest, and had forgotten it but for my reminding."

      "She is much changed."

      "It would be strange indeed if she was not changed. Before these troubles she was a girl living at her mother's knee, petted by her father, and the idol of her brothers. Two of her brothers fell fighting by the side of Prince Rupert, her mother wept herself into the grave for them, her father is still nursing the wound he got at Naseby, and her only brother, Stephen, is with Charles Stuart, wherever he may be. If such troubles did not change a girl, she would be hewn from the very rock of selfishness. Matilda is far from that. She loves with a whole heart, and will go all lengths to prove it. We do not know the new Matilda yet."

      Jane would have made this remark still more positively, if she could have seen her friend as soon as Swaffham was left behind. She sat erect, lost in thought, and her eyes had a look in them full of anxiety and sorrow. The sadness of an immense disillusion was over her. But she belonged to that imperial race who never lose heart in any trouble. To the very last she must hope; to the very last believe even against hope and against reason. Her life had gone to ruin, but she trusted