stain; and the little human body it wakened to life in--think you
that Christ will help me to fold them in love high and pure enough, and
teach the human body to do honour to its soul? 'Tis not monkish scorn of
itself that I would teach the body; it is so beautiful and noble a thing,
and so full of the power of joy. Surely That which made it--in His own
image--would not that it should despise itself and its own wonders, but
do them reverence, and rejoice in them nobly, knowing all their seasons
and their changes, counting not youth folly, and manhood sinful, or age
aught but gentle ripeness passing onward? I pray for a great soul, and
great wit, and greater power to help this fair human thing to grow, and
love, and live."

These had been born and had rested hid within her when she lay a babe
struggling 'neath her dead mother's corpse. Through the darkness of
untaught years they had grown but slowly, being so unfitly and unfairly
nourished; but Life's sun but falling on her, they seemed to strive to
fair fruition with her days.

'Twas not mere love she gave her offspring--for she bore others as years
passed, until she was the mother of four sons and two girls, children of
strength and beauty as noted as her own; she gave them of her constant
thought, and an honour of their humanity such as taught them reverence of
themselves as of all other human things. Their love for her was such a
passion as their father bore her. She was the noblest creature that they
knew; her beauty, her great unswerving love, her truth, were things
bearing to their child eyes the unchangingness of God's stars in heaven.

"Why is she not the Queen?" a younger one asked his father once, having
been to London and seen the Court. "The Queen is not so beautiful and
grand as she, and she could so well reign over the people. She is always
just and honourable, and fears nothing."

From her side Mistress Anne was rarely parted. In her fair retreat at
Camylott she had lived a life all undisturbed by outward things. When
the children were born strange joy came to her.

"Be his mother also," the duchess had said when she had drawn the clothes
aside to show her first-born sleeping in her arm. "You were made to be
the mother of things, Anne."

"Nay, or they had been given to me," Anne had answered.

"Mine I will share with you," her Grace had said, lifting her Madonna
face. "Kiss me, sister--kiss him, too, and bless him. Your life has
been