Celia meekly followed her step-mother to the carriage, which rolled away with the trio, and in a few minutes deposited them at one of the half-dozen doors of a large and stately mansion. On the terrace, before them, ladies and gentlemen were walking and chatting, most of them in rather shabby, though full, court-dress. Lady Ingram bowed to two or three, gave her hand to her son, and once more enjoining Celia to keep close behind, passed on into the Palace. "This is English ground, Madam," observed Philip, over his shoulder. Celia wished it were. Up lofty staircases, through suites of rooms, past groups of servants in the royal livery of England, worn and faded, she followed Lady Ingram and Philip, until in one apartment a lady dressed in black rose to meet them, and shook hands with Lady Ingram. "You can go in to the Queen, my friend," she said; "there is only His Majesty with her." There were only two persons in the room beyond. A gentleman stood at the window reading the _Gazette_; a lady in mourning sat writing at a very shabby little table in the middle of the room. A glance at each assured Celia that they were mother and son; and she speedily discovered who they were, by Lady Ingram's kneeling before the quiet-looking lady in mourning, who sat at the shabby little table. "Ah, _ma chère_!" said the lady, in a soft voice, turning to her; adding, "I am very glad to see you. It is long since I had the pleasure." Lady Ingram answered in French, and still kneeling, "I have been in Paris, Madame, and in England for a short time. I had the honor to inform your Majesty that I was going there to fetch my step-daughter." "This is your daughter?" asked the Queen, turning with a smile to Celia. Lady Ingram drew aside to leave room for her. "She scarcely speaks French yet," she observed. As Celia knelt and looked up into the face before her, she was much struck with that smile. It changed the aspect of the whole face. The air of subdued sadness which had dwelt upon the classic regular features and in the quiet soft eyes, passed away, and a brighter expression lighted them brilliantly while the smile remained. She could fancy what that face might have been in the old days, when, at the close of the coronation, nearly thirty years before, the Westminster students had called up that smile by their spontaneous shout of "_Vivat Regina Maria!_" Celia forgot all about kissing the Queen's hand, until she heard Lady Ingram's voice beside her whisper, in a subdued tone, "_Cette folle!_" Then she blushed painfully and hastily performed her homage. The charm which enfolded the Jacobites had been cast around her; the spell of voice, and eyes, and smile, which she would never forget any more. "Why so hurried, my child?" asked the soft voice, in Celia's own tongue. "Do not be frightened of me, I pray you."