“Ay, madam, she came here in her coach-and-six the summer before the pestilence, with her two beautiful children, and a party of ladies and gentlemen. They rode here from his Grace of Buckingham’s new mansion by the Thames—Clefden, I think they call it; and they do say his Grace do so lavish and squander money in the building of it, that belike he will be ruined and dead before his palace be finished. There were three coaches full, with servants and what not. And they brought wine, and capons ready dressed, and confectionery, and I helped to serve a collation for them in the garden. And after they had feasted merrily, with a vast quantity of sparkling French wine, they all rushed through the house like madcaps, laughing and chattering, regular French magpies, for there was more of ’em French than English, her ladyship leading them, till she comes to the door of this room, and finds it locked, and she begins to thump upon the panels like a spoilt child, and calls, ‘Reuben, Reuben, what is your mystery? Sure this must be the ghost-chamber! Open, open, instantly.’ And I answered her quietly, ‘’Tis the chamber where that sweet angel, your ladyship’s mother, lay in state, and it has never been opened to strangers since she died.’ And all in the midst of her mirth, the dear young lady burst out weeping, and cried, ‘My sweet, sweet mother! I remember the last smile she gave me as if it was yesterday.’ And then she dropped on her knees and crossed herself, and whispered a prayer, with her face close against the door; and I knew that she was praying for her lady-mother, as the way of your religion is, madam, to pray for the dead; and sure, though it is a simple thing, it can do no harm; and to my thinking, when all the foolishness is taken out of religion the warmth and the comfort seem to go too; for I know I never used to feel a bit more comfortable after a two hours’ sermon, when I was an Anabaptist.” “Are you not an Anabaptist now, Reuben?” “Lord forbid, madam! I have been a member of the Church of England ever since his Majesty’s restoration brought the Vicar to his own again, and gave us back Christmas Day, and the organ, and the singing-boys.” Angela’s life at the Manor was so colourless that the first blossoming of a familiar flower was an event to note and to remember. Life within convent walls would have been scarcely more tranquil or more monotonous. Sir John rode with his hounds three or four times a week, or was about the fields superintending the farming operations, walking beside the ploughman as he drove his furrow, or watching the scattering of the seed. Or he was in the narrow woodlands which still belonged to him, and Angela, taking her solitary walk at the close of day, heard his axe ringing through the wintry air.