said Hazel, in confusion,
"but I was so surprised and--"

"Yes, yes," interrupted Harleston, with a smile, "I quite understand.
Indeed, Lady Hazel, thine oversight carries not with it the sting of
slight; for, under the circumstances, I had been a churl indeed to have
been offended by such a pretty show of love's one-heartedness."

This brought a succession of crimson waves to Hazel's lovely face,
adding to its beauty as does the evening sunlight to the rose.

"But how knowest thou so much of these things that thou dost speak of?"
she asked, as she looked up at Harleston's face with her head held to
the one side and a smile of triumph playing about her mouth. "Surely
one could not discourse so learnedly on any subject without having had
practical experience."

Harleston was fairly taken aback; but as he attempted to stammer out
something in reply we came to her Majesty's room; so Sir Frederick was
permitted to escape Hazel's criticism of his explanation.

We were admitted to the Queen's presence by her son, the Marquis of
Dorset, who met us at the door.

"Ah! my friends," said he, pleasantly, "I am indeed pleasured that ye
have come. Her Majesty and I have been awaiting your arrival with
great anxiety; for we would hear from your lips the recital of that
unhappy and treacherous event which took place at Stony Stratford."

"Yes," said the Queen, "well would I like to hear a fuller description
of that which happened to our dear relatives and friends, than was
given in your letter to me, or rather to Hazel," she corrected.

Harleston here left me to be spokesman, whilst he, by some admirable
manoeuvring, made his way unto the other end of the room, where was
sitting Mary, apparently most busily engaged in stitching upon a piece
of tapestry. Whilst faithfully I told the story of Gloucester's
treachery, which I have already put down, and therefore need not
repeat, my friend approached Mary, who appeared not to see him until he
stood before her. I say she appeared to not see him; and yet this is
not exactly correct. I should say she tried to appear to have not seen
him. But what then caused that hand of lily whiteness so gently to
tremble, like an aspen leaf? And that bosom of Venus' mould to rise
and fall so quickly, if it were not that the heart beneath had buried
in its core the fire-pointed arrow shot by that lovely tyrant, Cupid,
with such unerring accuracy as had put Robin Hood to shame?

When at lengt