It was in our last talk together, before the fatal day of her execution, that my dear lady bestowed upon me her beloved Plato, advising that I should learn to read it in the language in which it was written. 'I cannot teach you Greek now, dear Margery,' she said, 'but there will be others.' I made a gesture of despair. What should I care for others when she had gone? I could not speak without breaking down, so I said nothing. And Lady Jane seemed to understand, for she was very sweet and kind. 'It will always be a consolation to you, Margery,' she said, 'to remember that you have been the greatest comfort to me. Ever since I first saw your sweet face entering the drawing-room at Sion House I have loved you dearly. I had been praying for some one to come to me who was young like me--I feel old now, dear, though it is scarcely a year since then, but so much that is sad has happened.' I stroked her hand and kissed it, for I could not speak, and if I had spoken my poor words might have spoiled the interview. And then it was that she asked me to write an account of that last year of her life, relating exactly how it happened that she was made queen, and how the throne passed away from her, leaving in its stead a scaffold; also describing how it came about that the head which had worn a crown was forfeited, and that for an error of her mind her poor frail body was killed, adding, 'Margery, others may write more learnedly of the matter, but I would fain be represented to posterity as I am rather than as I am supposed to be. And God will help you, if you ask Him,' she said, seeing my fear and dread that I should not be able to do it properly.