That very comfortable dame sat in her cushioned chair in the boudoir-- there were no easy-chairs then, except as rendered so by cushions; and plenty of soft thick cushions were a very necessary part of the furniture of a good house. Her Ladyship was dressed in the pink of the fashion, so far as it had reached her tailor at Kirkham; and she was turning over the leaves of a new play, entitled "The Comedie of Errour"--one of the earliest productions of the young Warwickshire actor, William Shakspere by name. She put her book down with a yawn when her husband and his sister came in. "How much colder 'tis grown this last hour or twain!" said she. "Prithee, Sir Thomas, call for more wood." Sir Thomas shouted as desired--the quickest way of settling matters--and when Jennet had come and gone with the fuel, he glanced into the little chamber to see if it were vacant. Finding no one there, he drew the bolt and sat down. "Gramercy, Sir Thomas! be we all prisoners?" demanded his wife with a little laugh. "Orige," replied Sir Thomas, "Rachel and I have a thing to show thee." "I thought you looked both mighty sad," remarked the lady calmly. "Dost know where is Blanche?" "Good lack, no! I never wis where Blanche is." "Orige, wouldst like to have Blanche wed?" "Blanche!--to whom?" "To Don John de Las Rojas." "Gramercy! Sir Thomas, you never mean it?" "He and Blanche mean it, whate'er I may." "Good lack, how fortunate! Why, he will be a Marquis one day--and hath great store of goods and money. I never looked for such luck. Have you struck hands with him, Sir Thomas?" Sir Thomas pressed his lips together, and glanced at his sister with an air of helpless vexation. Had it just occurred to him that the pretty doll whom he had chosen to be the partner of his life was a little wanting in the departments of head and heart? "What, Orige--an enemy?" he said. "Don John is not an enemy," returned Lady Enville, with a musical little laugh. "We have all made a friend of him." "Ay--and have been fools, perchance, to do it. 'Tis ill toying with a snake. But yet once--a Papist?" "Good lack! some Papists will get to Heaven, trow." "May God grant it!" replied Sir Thomas seriously. "But surely, Orige, surely thou wouldst never have our own child a Papist?" "I trust Blanche has too much good sense for such foolery, Sir Thomas," said the lady. "But if no--well, 'tis an old religion, at the least, and a splendrous. You would never let such a chance slip through your fingers, for the sake of Papistry?" "No, Sister--for the sake of the Gospel," said Rachel grimly.