Note 1. The English hand was the running hand of the old black letter, and was a very crabbed and tedious piece of work. The Italian hand, which came in about this time, has lasted until the present day, though its latest variety has lost much of the old clearness and beauty. It was at its best in the reign of James the First, of which period some specimens of writing have been preserved, exquisitely beautiful, and as legible as copper-plate. Most lovely is the youthful hand of his eldest daughter: the cacography of her later years is, alas! something horrible. Queen Elizabeth could write the Italian hand (and did it to perfection), but she has left on record that she did not like doing it. Note 2. These were the last words of Francesco Spira, an Italian lawyer and a pervert, whose terrible death, in the agonies of remorse and despair, made a deep and lasting impression on the Protestants of England. CHAPTER EIGHT. HOW TWO WENT IN AT THE GATE. "All the foolish work Of fancy, and the bitter close of all." Tennyson. "On all the sweet smile falleth Of Him who loveth so, But to one the sweet voice calleth, `Arise, and let us go; They wait to welcome thee, This night, at Home, with Me.'" "B.M." (_In Milisent's handwriting_.) SELWICK HALL, FEBRUARY YE II. This day was called of old time _Candlemas_, by reason of the great number of candles, saith _Father_, which were brent afore the altar at the Purification of Saint _Mary_. Being an holy day, all we to church this morrow, after the which I was avised to begin my chronicling. And afore I set down anything else, 'tis meet I should say that I do now see plain how I have played the fool, and have erred exceedingly. I would not think now to tear forth those pages I writ this last _November_, though they be such a record of folly and sin as few maids should need to set down. I would rather keep them, that I may see in future days all the ill that was once in _Milisent Louvaine_, and all the great mercy and goodness which the Lord my God did show me. Oh, the bitter anger that was in mine heart that night toward dear Aunt _Joyce_!--who, next unto _Father_ and _Mother_, hath been to me as an angel of God. For had she not stopped me in my madness, where and what had I been to-night? I can scarce bear to think on it. Perchance I feel it the more, sith I am ever put in mind thereof by the woefully changed face of poor _Blanche_--_Blanche_, but three months gone the merriest of us all, and now looking as though she should never know a day's merriment again. Her whole life seems ruined: and Dr _Bell_, the chirurgeon at _Keswick_, told _Mother_ but yesterday that _Blanche_ should not live long. She hath, said he, a leaning of her nature toward the consumption of the lungs, the which was greatly worsened by those days that she hid in the copse, fearing to come home, until Aunt _Joyce_ went to her.