“I am glad to see your Eminence,” said Mary, as the Cardinal approached her. “Sit down beside me, I pray you. At one time I feared I should never behold you again; but I am better, and I owe my preservation, under Heaven, to the ministry of this damsel. Without her I believe I should have died, and I never can forget the services she has rendered me—never sufficiently requite them.” “Your Majesty overrates my poor services,” said Constance. “She has poured balm into my wounded heart, as well as helped me to sustain my bodily sufferings,” pursued Mary. “Oh, my good Lord Cardinal, how can I have so deeply offended Heaven that I should be thus severely afflicted!—that the boon I have so earnestly prayed for should be denied me. What have I done to merit this chastisement?—how have I sinned? I have searched my breast, but can discover no wickedness therein. I have swerved from no duty. It cannot be a crime to love the King my husband—though, perchance, I have made him an idol. But enjoin me any penance you please. I will perform it.” “I enjoin you only resignation to the decrees of Heaven, gracious Madam,” returned Pole. “Your afflictions have been given you for some wise but inscrutable purpose, and must be patiently borne.” “I have borne them with patience,” rejoined Mary; “yet it is hard to be deprived of blessings which are vouchsafed to the meanest of my subjects. How many a poor cottager’s wife can clasp her offspring to her breast!—while I, alas! am childless.” “Your grief is shared by all your subjects, Madam,” observed the Cardinal. “Not by all,” rejoined Mary, with asperity. “There are many who exult in my distress, who have prayed that I might have no issue, but that the sceptre might pass from my hands to those of my sister Elizabeth. And their prayers would seem to be heard, while mine are rejected. Oh, what happiness would have been mine had a son been granted me, for I feel all a mother’s tenderness in my breast. A son would have compensated me for all my troubles—for the neglect I have experienced, and for the desertion which will ensue—but now I shall go to my grave broken-hearted.” “Be comforted, Madam, be comforted,” said Pole. “All will yet be well. The King will _not_ leave you.” “He _will_ leave me, that is certain,” rejoined Mary. “And then will come the severest part of my trial. When he is gone, all will be a blank to me. I would fain bury my woes in a cloister.” “No, Madam, you must rouse yourself,” said Pole. “You must not give way to this excess of grief. It has pleased the Supreme Disposer of events to deprive you, and the country placed under your governance, of a great blessing; but do not repine on that account. Rather rejoice that you have been afflicted. Devote all your energies to the welfare of your kingdom, and to the maintenance of religion. Peace will then be restored to your breast—peace, which nothing can disturb.”