r was a
dismal prospect.

That night there were tears of excitement and dismay on the pillow of
the Viscountess-to-be as she thought of the alarming future. Yet she
woke up, laughing, in the morning sunlight, for she had dreamt that
she was fastening a coronet over her brown hair.

* * * * *

The wedding festivities a few weeks later left nothing to be desired.
Day after day Joyce found herself the caressed centre of a brilliant
throng that held but one disappointing figure--her boy bridegroom. 'He
has eyes like a weasel, and a nose like a ferret,' was the bride's
secret criticism, when the introduction took place. But, after all,
the bridegroom was one of the least important parts of the wedding:
far less important than the Prince of Wales, who led her out to dance,
and whom she much preferred: far less important also than the
bridegroom's cousin, Abigail, a bold, black-eyed girl who took
country-bred Joyce under her protection at once, and saved her from
many a mistake. Abigail was already at the school to which Joyce was
to be sent. She herself was betrothed, though not as yet married, to
my Lord Darcy, and was therefore able to instruct Joyce herself in
many of the needful accomplishments of her new position.

The school days that followed were not unhappy ones, since, far better
than their books, both girls loved their embroidery work and other
'curious and ingenious manufactures,' especially the new and
fashionable employment of making samplers, which had just been
introduced. But when, in a short time, the Civil Wars broke out, their
peaceful world collapsed like a house of cards. The 'position' of the
young Viscountess and her husband vanished into thin air. One winter
at Court the young couple spent together, it is true, when the King
and Queen were in Oxford, keeping state that was like a faint echo of
Whitehall.

All too soon the fighting began again. In one of the earliest battles
young Lord Danvers was severely wounded and sent home maimed for life.
His days at Court and camp were over. Summoning his wife to nurse him,
he returned to his estate near Beverley in Yorkshire, where the next
few years of Joyce's life were spent, to her ill-concealed
displeasure.

Her husband's days were evidently numbered, and as he grew weaker, he
grew more exacting. Patience had never been one of Joyce's strong
points, and, though she did her best, time often dragged, and she
mourned the