hen the King was to
be reinstated, and they would all go home in triumph.

Meanwhile Anne Woodford felt herself a supernumerary, treated with
civility, and no more, as she ate her meals with a very feminine
Court, for almost all the gentlemen were in Ireland with the King.
She had a room in the entresol to herself, in Pauline's absence, and
here she could in turn sit and dream, or mend and furbish up her
clothes--a serious matter now--or read the least scrap of printed
matter in her way, for books were scarcer than even at Whitehall;
and though her 'mail' had safely been forwarded by Mr. Labadie, some
jealous censor had abstracted her Bible and Prayer-book. Probably
there was no English service anywhere in France at that time, unless
among the merchants at Bordeaux--certainly neither English nor
Reformed was within her reach--and she had to spend her Sundays in
recalling all she could, and going over it, feeling thankful to the
mother who had made her store Psalms, Gospels, and Collects in her
memory week by week.

She was so far forgotten that active attempts to convert her had
been dropped, except by Pauline. Perhaps it was thought that
isolation would be effectual, but in fact the sight of popular
Romanism not kept in check by Protestant surroundings shocked her,
and made her far more averse to change than when she saw it at its
best at Whitehall. In fine, the end of her ambition had been
neglect and poverty, and the real service that she had rendered was
unacknowledged, and marred by that momentary alarm. No wonder she
felt sore.

She had never once been to Paris, and seldom beyond the gardens,
which happily were free in the absence of the Queen, and always had
secluded corners apart from the noble terraces, safe from the
intrusion of idle gallants. Anne had found a sort of bower of her
own, shaded by honeysuckles and wild roses, where she could sit
looking over the slopes and the windings of the Seine and indulge
her musings and longings.

The lonely life brought before her all the anxieties that had been
stifled for the time by the agitations of the escape. Again and
again she lived over the scene in the ruins. Again and again she
recalled those two strange appearances, and shivering at the thought
of the anniversary that was approaching in another month, still felt
sometimes that, alive or dead, Peregrine's would be a home face, and
framed to herself imaginary scenes in which she addressed him, and