Plantagenets. For this lady was of the bluest blood, and but for
an act of cruel treachery on the part of King Edward the Fourth, she
might have been the Princess Royal of England. And never had England a
daughter who could have graced that position more perfectly. To a
character so high and pure, and a taste so delicate and refined, as were
almost out of place in that coarsest and most blunt of all the
centuries, she united manners exquisitely gentle, gracious, and winning.
The Lady Frances Basset was a woman taught by much and varied
suffering; she had known both the climax of happiness and the depth of
sorrow. The crushing blow of her House's fall had been followed by two
years of agonising suspense, which had closed in the lonely and far-off
death of the father from whom she derived the fairest features of her
character, and whom she loved more than life. Three years ensued,
filled by the bitter pain of watching the gradual fading of the husband
whom she loved with yet tenderer fervour; and at the end of that time
she was left a widow, but with two children to comfort her. And now,
two years later, the Lord came and called the elder of those cherished
darlings. Joseph was not, and Simeon was not, yet Benjamin must be
taken away. But no tears stood in the soft, clear blue eyes, as Frances
came forward to greet Isoult. They would come later; but the time for
them was not now, when little Honour's life was ebbing away. The mother
was tearless.

"Come!" she said softly; and Isoult rose and followed her.

On a little truckle-bed in the chamber above, lay the dying child. Had
she survived till the following spring, she would then have been eight
years old. As Isoult bent over her, a smile broke on the thin wan face,
and the little voice said,--"Aunt Isoult!" This was Honour's pet name
for her friend; for there was no tie of relationship between them.
Isoult softly stroked the fair hair. "Aunt Isoult," the faint voice
pursued, "I pray you, tell me if I shall die? My Lady my grandmother
will not say, and it hurteth my mother to ask her."

Isoult glanced at Lady Lisle for permission to reply.

"Speak thy will, child!" she said in a steeled voice. "We can scarce be
more sorrowful than we are, I count. Yet I do marvel what we have
sinned more than others, that God punisheth us so much the sorer."

A grieved look came into Isoult's eyes, but she only answered the
question of the little child.

"Ay, dear H