ough she must learn the rare art of
being tender to the right person at the right time.

I was sure that Frances was equipped with the mental and moral qualities
necessary in so dangerous a field as Whitehall Court. Among those
qualities was her knowledge that she was beautiful; not that she believed
it as a matter of vanity, but knew it simply as a matter of fact. That
knowledge would give her self-confidence and would help her to value
justly the flattery of men, which was sure to be her portion to
overflowing. She would know that flattery was her due, and therefore
would not be too grateful for it, gratitude being a dangerous virtue in
a woman. She was as dear to me as if she were my sister, and I hesitated
bringing her to terrible Whitehall. But desperate conditions need
desperate remedies, so I determined to lay the matter before my uncle and
let him and my cousins decide the question for themselves.

With this object in view, one bright spring morning, I took horse at the
Leg Tavern in King Street, Westminster, and rode to Sundridge to spend a
few days with my uncle, hoping to interest my beautiful cousin in the
Duchess of York's announcement concerning the choice of her maids. I knew
that Sir Richard would protest against Frances's going to Whitehall, but
I hoped, with the help of my cousins, to override the old gentleman's
feeble will. While I saw clearly the dangers the girl would encounter; I
had faith in her strength, and felt sure the chances of making her
fortune were worth the risk. In other words, I was staking a human soul
which was infinitely dear to me, against wealth and station--a hundred to
one chance, even with the Fates smiling. When one considers how seldom
the long odds are taken and how often they win, one cannot help believing
that courage is the touchstone of Fortune; the criterion by which the
capricious Goddess measures her votaries and distributes her smiles.

I made my journey to Sundridge and arrived there in the afternoon near
the hour of three, finding my uncle and my cousin Sarah at home, but
Frances abroad.

"She walks a great deal nowadays," remarked my uncle, and Sarah assented
with--"Yes, a great deal," having, I fancied, more significance in her
manner than in her words.

"There has been hardly a pleasant afternoon in a month that she has not
been abroad with her book," continued Sir Richard.

"Her book," murmured Sarah, who was a laconic young person, much given to
observi