balmy medicine of filial tenderness, which he had neglected to pay. At that moment he would have given his marquisate to a beggar, to have purchased the memory of one action done to soothe her woful end. The pomp of a funeral—masses for her soul—these were small compensations, which her arch enemy, even Henry himself, could, and probably would concede. The voice of affection—the duteous affection of a child—he only could have afforded; and he had withheld it.
Monina stood at the park gate, attended by her Spanish domestic, whose singular costume alone must attract regard. "What do you here, maiden?" cried Dorset; "the king and his court will speedily pass this way: this is no fitting place for you."
"I am here," she replied, "to see and speak to your king. I come to prefer a request in the name of one whom God take to his place; she can disturb him no more."
"You are from Bermondsey—from" The words choked Dorset. Monina continued:—"I come from the death-bed of the Lady Elizabeth of England."
"What demand would you make on his majesty?" said the marquess; do you seek a guerdon for your pains? Speak, then, to me—I am her son."
He was about to draw forth his purse; but her look, which grew animated, prevented him, as she said, "I come on a holy errand. The dying lady commanded me to convey her last words to her royal daughter. I seek permission from your king to fulfil her wish."
Dorset was thoughtless and eager. He saw no objection that Henry could have that his sister should have the last message from her now dead parent; so without hesitation he told the maiden that by Henry's permission he was now about to communicate the sad intelligence to the queen, and that she might accompany him.
It is thus by small invisible threads that Fate weaves the intricate web of our lives. All hung by the slenderest tissue: had Monina seen Henry, most assuredly he would have prevented the interview she sought, and have used his utmost craft to discover whether the fatal secret made a part of the queen's message. Now his sagacity, his caution, his severity were of no avail. Monina stood in the presence of his wife.
Six years had considerably altered Elizabeth; habitual fear had engendered a moral timidity, which was not natural to her, for she was the daughter of a proud race: her sweetness, her affectionate disposition still remained; but her soul was sad, and she looked pale and inanimate. The news of her mother's
