"Oh yes; I was out driving this morning, and afterwards talking to Dr. Burnet, and you know that taketh some energy—I think to have my ball just the same next Saturday. I have remedied myself and not troubled the doctors." He wished to ask her why she had given the orders about her household that had so shaken him, but could not bring the words to his lips. Mary coughed a little, and sat up. "I wanted to ask you something," she said. "I am always begging—am I not?" He pressed the hand he held between his so fiercely that his heavy rings hurt her, but she continued smiling. "About Greenwich Palace," she added rather faintly. "I want it for a hospital——" "I know, I know," he answered remorsefully. "You have spoken of it before. It hath always been the cursed money, but you shall have it if I have to pawn my furniture." "There are so many old seamen about," murmured Mary—"poor and wounded—and many of them were at La Hogue and helped save us all. I used to see them when I took my airing in Hyde Park, begging—one could not forbear tears. And the hospitals are full. But Greenwich——" "It shall be," said William. "Give that no more thought. Wren shall draw plans. It shall be as you wish, only get well again, and that shall be my thankoffering." Looking and smiling at him she sat silent while the firelight flooded her figure with gorgeous light; in that moment’s stillness both of them thought of love as a terrible thing. Mary suddenly closed her eyes. "Your mother," she said softly, "do you remember her?" He answered under his breath— "Yes. Your name, my dear, your family, should I not remember her?" "When she died she was no older than I am—I often think how strangely near her grave is. I think that Chapel in Westminster a sad spot. But if we live with our thoughts on Death how can we be afraid? God would not let one be afraid." "Why do you speak of death?" asked the King, in a trembling voice. "You frighten me——" "Ah no," whispered Mary. "Death is not fearful. I have been idle to-day, and thought of many strange things. I recalled a portrait of your mother I found in a desk of yours when I first came to Holland—a limning in little with white violets on the back, and these words, ’J’aime un seul.’ That was a pretty thought of hers." She moved her head restlessly on the red cushions and lifted her heavy lids. "I would we were at The Hague again," she said wistfully. "You shall go," he replied impetuously. "When the spring cometh we will go together to The Hague, and be free of all of it——" "There is the war." "Let Waldeck take the command this campaign—I will stay with you. We have had so little time together all these years." Mary gazed tenderly into his ardent face. "The spring seemeth so far off. Hold my hand. I feel as if the world might pass from beneath us if we could sit thus and I not notice. You will be with me this Christmas-tide?"