True, for the last two days he had not mentioned his name; but that, she thought, might be accidental; and now her father did not come so soon as he had promised; but, then, she fancied that this court ceremony might have been long and tedious, or that other business might have detained him after the reception was over. Minute upon minute passed, however--one hour went by after another--day fled, and night came on--and, after gazing some time upon the flickering fire on the wide hearth, for the evening was somewhat cold, though spring had well nigh made way for summer, Mary rang the little silver bell before her, and bade the servant bring her light to work. The man obeyed; and when the sconce, protruding through the tapestry by a long gilded arm, was lighted, she said, "Is not my father long?" "He has been back, lady," replied the man, "but did not dismount, only giving some orders to Hugh, and saying, that if Sir Philip de Morgan came, to tell him he would be here in about two hours." "How long was that ago?" demanded Mary Grey. The man replied, "More than an hour." And with this intelligence she was forced to rest satisfied. Not long after she heard a step, and her heart beat; but, listening eagerly, she perceived that the sound gave no hope that there were two persons approaching; and with a sigh she plied the busy needle. The next instant her father came in; and, though he kissed her tenderly, with long denied affection, she could see that his face was clouded and somewhat stern. "I have kept you late from supper, my sweet child," he said; "but I had business which took me away after my visit to the prince." "Not pleasant business, I fear, noble father," replied Mary, hanging on his arm, "for you look sad." Sir John Grey gazed on her for a moment or two, with a look of melancholy interest and affection. She had never seen such an expression on his countenance before, but when he had taken leave of her to quit his native land as an exile; and it seemed prophetic of misfortune. "What has happened, my dear father?" she exclaimed; "has any new misfortune befallen you?" "No," answered Sir John Grey; "and yet I must say yes, too; for that which is sad for you, must be sad for me, Mary." "He is dead! he is killed!" cried Mary Grey, her sunny cheek growing deadly pale; but her father hastened to relieve her on that score. "No, Mary," he said, gravely, "he is not dead; but he is unworthy." The blood rushed up again into her face, as if some one had accused her of a crime; but the next moment she laughed, gaily answering, "No, my father, no! Some one has deceived you. That is impossible. Richard of Woodville cannot be unworthy." "Alas! my sweet child, 'tis you deceive yourself," replied the knight; "the confidence of love speaks out before you know the facts."