"What will happen in England now, Highness?" asked the Countess, thinking of the Earl. "I suppose," said Mary, breathing quickly, "they will offer the Prince the throne ... he commandeth my presence in England ... I must leave Holland——" "You love the country?" "Better than my own. I was not made for great affairs. I love this quiet life—my houses here, the people..." She broke off quickly. "What will you do, Madam?" Lady Sunderland indeed wondered. "Go join my lord in Amsterdam," she answered half recklessly. "An exile remains an exile." "The Prince," said Mary gravely, "hath some debt to my lord. He never forgetteth his friends—or those who serve him." "I thank you for that much comfort, Madam." "You must return to England—to Althorp," continued the Princess gently; "you have done nothing that you should stay abroad——" Lady Sunderland shook her head. "What is Althorp to me, God help me! I think my home is in Amsterdam—I shall go there when Your Highness leaveth for England." Mary put her cool hand over the slim fingers of the Countess that rested on the back of the high walnut chair. "Are you going with Basilea de Marsac?" "Yes; she is a good soul." "A Catholic," said Mary, with a little frown; "but I like her too—better than I did——" "She hath become very devoted to Your Highness; she is very lonely." "What was her husband?" Lady Sunderland smiled. "An incident." Mary smiled too, then moved back to the bureau. "I must get back to bed; I have a sore throat which I must nurse." She coughed, and moistened her lips. "I am as hoarse as a town-crier." She laughed again unsteadily and rang the silver bell before her. "I never pass a winter without a swelled face or a sore throat." The Dutch waiting lady entered, and Mary gave her the letters. "See that they go at the earliest—and, Wendela, you look tired, get to bed immediately." With no more than this she sent off her refusal of three kingdoms. When they were alone again she rose and suddenly embraced Lady Sunderland. "Do you think I shall come back to Holland?" she asked under her breath. "Why—surely——" "Ah, I know not." She loosened her arms and sank on to the stool near the stove. "Sometimes I feel as if the sands were running out of me. You know," she smiled wistfully, "I have an unfortunate name; the last Mary Stewart, the Prince his mother, was not thirty when she died—of smallpox." She was silent, and something in her manner held Lady Sunderland silent too. "A terrible thing to die of," added Mary, after a little. "I often think of it; when you are young it must be hard, humanly speaking, but God knoweth best." "I wonder why you think of that now?" asked Lady Sunderland gently. "I wonder! We must go to bed ... this is marvellous news we have had to-night ... to know that I must sail when the ice breaketh ... good night, my Lady Sunderland."