parents were both
dead, and she lived with her grandfather in one of the twin lodges
that guarded the Manor gates. Old Thomas had fought at the Squire's
side abroad in years gone by. Now, aged and bent, he, too, watched for
that door to open, as he sat in his accustomed place in the church
with Cecily by his side. Old Thomas's eyes followed his master
lovingly, when Colonel Purefoy entered, heading the little
procession,--a tall, erect, soldierly-looking man, though his hair was
decidedly grey, and grey too was the pointed beard that he still wore
over a small ruff, in the fashion of the preceding reign.

Close behind him came his wife. The village people spoke of her as
'Madam,' since, although English born, and, indeed, possessed of
considerable property in her own native county of Yorkshire, she was
attached to the Court of Queen Henrietta Maria, and had caught
something of the foreign grace of her French mistress.

But it was the two children for whose coming Cecily waited most
eagerly, as they followed their parents. Edward Purefoy, the heir, a
tall, handsome boy, came in first, leading by the hand his dainty
little sister Jocosa, who seemed too fairy-like to support the
stately family name, and who was generally known by its shorter form
of Joyce.

Last of all came a portly waiting-maid, carrying a silky-haired
spaniel on a cushion under each arm. These petted darlings, King
Charles' own special favourites, were all the rage at Court at this
time, and accompanied their masters and mistresses everywhere, even to
church, where--fortunate beings--they were allowed to slumber
peacefully on cushions at their owners' feet throughout the long
services, when mere human creatures were obliged at any rate to
endeavour to keep awake.

Cecily had no eyes to spare, even for the pet-dogs, on the eventful
Sunday when the Squire and his family first appeared again at church
after an unusually long absence. For there was little Mistress Jocosa,
all clad in white satin, like a princess in a fairy tale, and as
pretty as a picture. And so the great Court painter, Sir Anthony
Vandyck, must have thought, seeing he had chosen to paint her portrait
and make a picture of her himself in this same costume, with its
stiff, straight, shining skirt, tight bodice, pointed lace collar, and
close-fitting transparent cap that covered, but could not hide, the
waves of dark crisp hair. When Cecily discovered that a string of
pearls was clasped