"Is he your Whig?" asked Ephraim, laughing. "Pray, don't make him into mincemeat; he is one of the best men in England." "He need be," said I; "he is a horrid Whig! What do you, being friends with such a man?" "He is a very good man, Cary. He was one of my tutors at school. I never knew what his politics were before to-night." We were silent for a while; and then Grandmamma sent for me, not, as I feared, to scold me for being loud-spoken and warm, but to tell me that one of my lappets hung below the other, and I must make Perkins alter it before Tuesday. I do not know how I bore the rest of the evening. When I went up at last to our chamber, I found it empty. Lucette, Grandmamma's French woman, who waits on her, while Perkins is rather my Aunt Dorothea's and ours, came in to tell me that Perkins was gone to bed with a headache, and hoped that we would allow her to wait on us to-night, when she was dismissed by the elder ladies. "Oh, I want no waiting at all," said I, "if somebody will just take the pins out of my head-dress carefully. Do that, Lucette, and then I shall need nothing else, I cannot speak for the other young ladies." Lucette threw a wrapping-cape over my shoulders, and began to remove the pins with deft fingers. Grandmamma had not yet come up-stairs. "Mademoiselle Agnes looks charmante to-night," said she: "but then she is always charmante. But what has Mademoiselle Flore? So white, so white she is! I saw her through the door." I told her that Flora's brother had been taken prisoner. "Ah, this horrible war!" cried she. "Can the grands Seigneurs not leave alone the wars? or else fight out their quarrels their own selves?" "Oh, the Prince will soon be here," said I, "and then it will all be over." "All be over? Ah, _sapristi_! Mademoiselle does not know. The Prince means the priests: and the priests mean--_Bon_! have I not heard my grandmother tell?" "Tell what, Lucette? I thought you were a Papist, like all Frenchwomen." "A Catholic--I? Why then came my grandfather to this country, and my father, and all? Does Mademoiselle suppose they loved better Spitalfields than Blois? Should they then leave a country where the sun is glorious and the vines _ravissantes_, for this black cold place where the sun shine once a year? _Vraiment! Serait-il possible_?" I laughed. "The sun shines oftener in Cumberland, Lucette. I won't defend Spitalfields. But I want to know what your grandmother told you about the priests." "The priests have two sides, Mademoiselle. On the one is the confessional: you must go--you shall not choose. You kneel; you speak out all--every thought in your heart, every secret of your dearest friend. You may not hide one little thought. The priest hears you hesitate? The questions come:--Mademoiselle, terrible questions, questions I could not ask, nor you understand. You learn to understand them. They burn up your heart, they drag down to Hell your soul. That is one side."