It was still early, when I went down stairs. I carried with me two books, one of songs, the other of lessons for the organ, which Master Hall had given me. I was playing one of these lessons with great pains, and stopping now and then, for it was somewhat difficult, when I heard the door open. Supposing it might be Mistress Mandeville, I did not speak till I had finished my lesson; when I said, without looking round: "There, Mistress Mandeville, how do you like that?" (We were always good friends, though never were two women who had less in common.) "It is not Mistress Mandeville, but I like it very much, indeed!" said a pleasant voice. And, turning quickly, I beheld a young lady whom I had never seen before. She was, at that time, about fourteen, very pretty, even at that unformed age, with the yellow gold hair of her Tudor race, a fair complexion and merry eyes, which had yet a spark in them promising a choleric disposition, if it were not checked in time. I guessed at once she was Lady Frances Brandon, the Duke's youngest daughter, and was in some confusion. "Nay, do not rise, but play me something else," said she. "I suppose you are my mother's new gentlewoman, of whom I have heard?" "Yes, madam." "And I am Lady Frances, and I love music above all things," said she. "I never heard any woman touch the organ as you do. I like it far better than spinet or clavichord, or any of their race, don't you?" I told her yes, for sacred and solemn music, but for that which was lighter in character, I preferred the clavichord. She bade me play something else, and I obeyed, not knowing what else to do. She stood by in silence, drinking in the sounds with that fixed attention which is so flattering to the performer, and shows the real lover of music. Then I ventured to ask her if she did not play herself? "Oh, yes, a little, but not like you. I shall ask my mother to let you give me lessons." Then, at my asking, she sat down to the virginal and played a simple lesson, not very accurately, but with true feeling. "There, what say you?" when she had finished. "Shall I ever make a player?" "I see no reason why you should not," I answered. "You have but to cultivate correctness in tone and touch to make a very good player, but these last are essential." She colored a little, and then said, with a half laugh: "You are no courtier, Mistress—Corbet—you should have praised my playing to the skies, and sworn that you were listening to the music of the spheres. That is what I am used to." "Perhaps that is the trouble with your playing," I could not forbear saying; whereat she laughed again. "Worse and worse. Why you are downright Dunstable with a witness; but I like you all the better," she added. "I think you and I shall be good friends. Say, Mistress Corbet, will you give me lessons on the organ?" "Surely, Lady Frances, if your mother is willing," said I. "It must be as she says, you know."