In the little parlour of the little house at Crowe sat a solitary lady. She was not yet fifty years of age, but her hair was only one remove from white; and though lines of thought and suffering were marked on her pale face, it yet bore the remains of what had been delicate loveliness. Her complexion was still exquisitely fair, and her eyes were a light, bright blue. Though she moved quickly, it was with much dignity and grace. She was a small, slightly-made woman; she sat as upright as a statue; and she inclined her head like a queen. It was no marvel, for she had been all but a queen. For twelve years of her life, her velvet robes had swept over palace pavements, and her diamonds had glittered in the light of royal saloons; and for seven of those years she had herself occupied the highest place. An invitation from her had been an envied honour; a few minutes' conversation with her, a supreme distinction. For this was Honor Plantagenet, Viscountess Lisle, sometime Lady Governess of Calais. But that was all over now. She was "a widow indeed, and desolate." The House of Lisle had fallen seven years before; and Honour's high estate, as well as her private happiness, fell with it. And with her, as with so many others, it ended in the old fashion-- "`Where be thy frendes?' sayd Robin. `Syr, never one wyll me know; Whyle I was ryche enow at home Grete boste then wolde they blowe; And now they renne awaye fro me, As bestes on a rowe; They take no more heed of me, Than they me never sawe.'" [Note 6]. Of the scores of distinguished persons who had enjoyed the princely hospitality of Lady Lisle at Calais, not one ever condescended to glance into the little house at Crowe. She had friends left, but they were not distinguished persons. And foremost among these was Isoult Avery, who for two years had been bower-woman to the Viscountess, in those old days when she sat in the purple as Governess of Calais. Many minutes had not elapsed before Philippa and Dr Thorpe entered the parlour together. "Well, what cheer?" asked Lady Lisle, quickly, even before her greeting: for the grandchild who lay ill in the chamber above was very dear to that lonely woman's heart. "Madam, the child is dying." "Alack, my poor lamb!" And Lady Lisle rose and went above to the little sufferer. Dr Thorpe turned to Isoult. "What aileth the mother?" he asked her shortly. "Frances?" she replied. "In good sooth, I wis not. I have not yet seen her. Doth aught ail her save sorrow?" "The Lady Frances," he repeated. "Methinks somewhat else doth ail her. What it is essay you to discover."