ote 1. The English hand was the running hand of the old black letter,
and was a very crabbed and tedious piece of work. The Italian hand,
which came in about this time, has lasted until the present day, though
its latest variety has lost much of the old clearness and beauty. It
was at its best in the reign of James the First, of which period some
specimens of writing have been preserved, exquisitely beautiful, and as
legible as copper-plate. Most lovely is the youthful hand of his eldest
daughter: the cacography of her later years is, alas! something
horrible. Queen Elizabeth could write the Italian hand (and did it to
perfection), but she has left on record that she did not like doing it.

Note 2. These were the last words of Francesco Spira, an Italian lawyer
and a pervert, whose terrible death, in the agonies of remorse and
despair, made a deep and lasting impression on the Protestants of
England.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

HOW TWO WENT IN AT THE GATE.

"All the foolish work
Of fancy, and the bitter close of all."

Tennyson.

"On all the sweet smile falleth
Of Him who loveth so,
But to one the sweet voice calleth,
`Arise, and let us go;
They wait to welcome thee,
This night, at Home, with Me.'"

"B.M."

(_In Milisent's handwriting_.)

SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE II.
This day was called of old time _Candlemas_, by reason of the great
number of candles, saith _Father_, which were brent afore the altar at
the Purification of Saint _Mary_. Being an holy day, all we to church
this morrow, after the which I was avised to begin my chronicling.

And afore I set down anything else, 'tis meet I should say that I do now
see plain how I have played the fool, and have erred exceedingly. I
would not think now to tear forth those pages I writ this last
_November_, though they be such a record of folly and sin as few maids
should need to set down. I would rather keep them, that I may see in
future days all the ill that was once in _Milisent Louvaine_, and all
the great mercy and goodness which the Lord my God did show me.

Oh, the bitter anger that was in mine heart that night toward dear Aunt
_Joyce_!--who, next unto _Father_ and _Mother_, hath been to me as an
angel of God. For had she not stopped me in my madness, where and what
had I been to-night? I can scarce bear to think on it. Perchance I
feel it the more, sith I am ever