Day had reason, as our French cousins would say, for that “home” was the Palace of Hampton Court. When my sister became Maid of Honour to Queen Adelaide, Day assumed, as in duty bound, an extra dignity and courtliness of manner, and invariably talked of when “We go to Windsor,” when “Our waiting begins,” and the like, and indeed to the end of her life she considered herself one of the pillars of the throne. [Sidenote: ETIQUETTE BELOW STAIRS] At the same time she was a stickler for etiquette, and very strict as to the rules of precedence in the “room,” as it is now called—in those benighted days, the “house-keeper’s room.” One evening she came to my mother to propound the following weighty question: “Do I follow or precede the Honourable Mrs Spalding’s maid? for I do not know if a Viscount’s daughter goes before the wife of the younger son of an earl.” Poor Day! she lost rank, but even that was preferable to proving her ignorance. She was very apt at assuming, or perhaps I had better say aping, the tastes of her employers, and during a prolonged sojourn at Florence, had imbibed a great predilection for the Mediæval era, as far as the sound went, for I do not think the epithet Middle Ages conveyed any definite idea to her mind. She married late in life a Court official in a small line, who occupied the post of a clerk, or what-not, attached to the Palace of Hampton Court, and I well remember, in the gorgeous description she gave me of her own wedding, that she mentioned with pride, “my friend, Mrs Chapman, wore quite a Middle Age satin.” The name of Henry Mansell frequently comes back to my memory as intimately connected with the fortunes of our family. He served one or another member thereof for a period of more than half a century, emulating in his affection and loyalty to the name of Boyle, the characteristic devotion of a Caleb Balderstone. His peculiarities made him a prominent character in our annals, and he was so well known among our literary friends as to figure in the pages of a novel, which was published at the time, anonymously, by an eminent writer of the day. In the volume, entitled “De Lunatico Inquirendo,” if still in print, may be found the portrait of our faithful and eccentric dependent. Henry was very fond of travelling, and took great delight in lionising different cities which we visited; but in one respect he was a staunch John Bull—no power on earth could persuade him that when he resided in Florence he could possibly be called a foreigner. “No, ma’am,” he used to say, “the Italians are foreigners, but I am an Englishman!” Yet he liked Italy and the Italians, and during a summer we passed at Munich busied himself, with an Italian grammar and dictionary, in preparation for his journey to Rome. The language of Goethe and Schiller had no charm for him, and by means of his Italian studies and his own quick intelligence he contrived to make himself understood, although in a somewhat unidiomatic and ungrammatical way.