'I am Meg Brown, madam. At your service,' I said, adding, as she remained quiet, 'a poor young singing-girl.' 'You don't seem to have much boldness in speech, Meg. How, then, can you have the courage to sing?' I clasped my hands tightly together, with an inward prayer for help, and, in a moment, from the extremity of fear passed to a state of blessed confidence. 'Only hear me,' I said. 'I can sing, madam.' 'Can you?' The piercing eyes sought to read my innermost soul. 'Yes, madam. Once, when I was a child, Master Montgomery, our curate, took me to see a poor woman who had lost her baby and was almost dead with grief. She could not weep, nor sleep, nor eat; the trouble was killing her. But I sang to her, and she cried like a child, and prayed to God and recovered. And another time,' I spoke more clearly now, 'when some serving-men and women had a great quarrel, and were fighting in a truly terrible manner, I stood up and sang, and sang until they fell upon their knees and burst out into tears and prayers. After that, Master Montgomery always fetched me to sing to people when he could do nothing with them.' 'Wonderful!' said Queen Mary, in a rather satirical manner. 'But those were only poor folk; it remains to be seen whether you can sing to a queen.' 'God,' said I, half to myself and half to her, 'Who helped me to sing to His poor, can help me to sing to'--I was going to say His queen, but substituted 'a queen.' 'And is not the poor queen His, too?' asked the woman, who was reading my heart. 'He knows,' I said, trembling a little, lest she should take umbrage at my daring. 'He knows them that are His.' Mary did not say anything to this. She turned her head away from me with a peevish movement. I was afraid to speak, and therefore waited in silence until she spoke again. 'Sing to me,' she said. 'What shall I sing?' 'I am greatly troubled,' she replied at length. 'Sing what you sang to that poor mother who had lost her child.' It was one of Martin Luther's cradle songs, translated for me, when a child, by Master Montgomery, who fitted it to a tender little tune of his own composing. I loved it well, but it seemed a strange song to sing to the mightiest woman in the land, the Queen of England. Perhaps, however, as she said she was greatly troubled, she might be in need of comforting. I thought of that, and standing there, with my hands tightly clasped before me, sang as I had never sung before-- Sleep well, my dear, sleep safe and free; The holy angels are with thee, Who always see thy Father's face, And never slumber nights nor days. There was a quick movement on the bed, and Mary opened wide eyes of amazement, but she did not interrupt, and I went on singing, until, gaining confidence, my voice rang out clearly and triumphantly in the last verse--