“As you will, madam,” the castellan replied; “I do but my duty.”

“I doubt it not, good Bedingfield,” she answered with sad courtesy, “but I have known duty more graciously done. Howbeit, send me the maid; I would see what sort of a creature my Lord Cromwell sends to watch his queen.”

“Your grace mistakes the matter,” Sir Edmund said awkwardly; “this is a well-bred maiden, the niece of a gallant gentleman of Devon, Sir William Carew.”

“Carew?” repeated the queen, thoughtfully. “I should know the name, kindred of the master of horse, as I remember, and he is truly a noble soldier. Fate and Cromwell are propitious; I looked for worse. Let there be no[48] more delay, sir; my heart fluttereth at the thought of four female attendants,” she added, with a touch of irony.

[48]

Having overheard all this talk, so little calculated to allay her misgivings, Betty waited for Bedingfield’s summons with increased agitation. When he came to the door and beckoned to her to advance, she did so with great reluctance; although never a timid girl, she felt deeply embarrassed as she entered the room beyond, and found herself in the presence of Catherine of Arragon. Her eyes dazzled by the greater illumination, she was, at first, only conscious that she stood in a large room where there was a bright fire burning on the hearth, and before it several figures. She made her curtsy almost mechanically, and it was a moment before she collected her thoughts, and then she found that the queen was addressing her.

“I bid you welcome, maiden,” Catherine said not unkindly. “Sir Edmund tells me that you are sent by my lord privy seal, whereby I know you to be chosen rather to his liking than my own comfort; but God forbid that I should misjudge so young a heart as thine! What is your name?”

“Betty Carew,” was the answer, in a low[49] tone, “the daughter of Sir Thomas Carew of Devon.”

[49]

“Thomas Carew,” repeated the queen, with sudden recollection. “Your mother was the daughter of Lord Penrith; I knew her well, and I do now recall that she commended her child to my care, when I was little able to care for any one; a falling tree doth crush the flower at its root. Blessed Virgin, how strange is destiny! That very child sent down to watch her royal mistress!”

Catherine spoke in a low tone, more to herself than to those about her, and sat 

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