th your beauty there is a soul that can burn, a
heart that can yearn, and a reckless disregard of consequences that on
occasion may make a blessed fool of you. It is such women as you who keep
alive the spark of Himself which God first breathed into man. I do not
blame you. I pity you, and am lost in wondering what will come of it
all."

After a long pause, she spoke, sighing: "Although you may not understand
what I mean, there was a great deal of right as well as wrong in what I
did. I owed to his love, which I knew to be true, an acknowledgment of
mine, but more, I had wronged him grievously, and it was right that I
should make what poor amends I could. But right or wrong, I did what I
had to do, and I do not intend to blame myself, nor to hear blame from
any one else. I am perfectly willing that the whole world should know
what I have done--that is, I should be were it not for father."

"Again I say I do not blame you," I returned, "though I wish sincerely
you had not gone."

"Why did you follow me, and how did you know where I had gone?" asked
Frances.

I told her of my visit to her father's house and how, upon my failure to
find her there, I went to the Old Swan.

"I thought it would be better that you should leave the Old Swan with me
than alone," I said. "It would have been better had you taken me with
you."

"Would you have gone with me, knowing my errand?" she asked.

"Yes, gladly," I answered. "When a woman deliberately makes up her mind
to do a thing of this sort, she does it sooner or later, despite heaven,
earth, or the other place to the contrary. I should have gained nothing
by opposing you; I could at least have given color of propriety by going
with you."

We walked up Thames Street till we came to the neighborhood of Baynard's
Castle, where we took boat and went to Whitehall, each of us in silent
revery all the way.

While I was paying the waterman, Frances ran up the stairs to the garden,
and when I followed I saw her talking to the king, so I stopped ten or
twelve paces from them and removed my hat. Being in their lee, the wind
brought the king's words to me, and I imagined, from the loud tone in
which he spoke, that he intended me to hear what he had to say. Perhaps
he suspected that I had helped Frances in her morning's escapade.

"I am greatly disappointed, my angel, my beauty," said the king, "that
you have taken this morning's excursion."

So he knew of her "excursion," and doubtle