“Ha!” exclaimed Dame Haryott at last, looking more malevolent and witch-like than usual, “an’ who be you, young mistress, wi’ y’r white ’ands, an’ dressed out like a country-lass, as do carry y’rself so proud-like? Hush and I’ll tell ’ee. You be one as long loved Love, an’ sought it vainly till, one day, ye found it—in your own heart ... the love for a man——” “I—I love no man!” cried my lady, with a strange vehemence. “Bah!” quoth Penelope harshly, “’tis peepin’ at me from y’r eyes, flushin’ in y’r cheek. First, ’twas love o’ y’rself, which was a bad love, but now ... aha, now it be love for a man! A love as shall grow an’ grow till it be a pain ... some love be a pain, I know ... and ’tis the only love worth ’aving!” “I love no man!” repeated my lady. “Shall I speak his name, mistress?” “No—no!” answered my lady, a little breathlessly. “Oho!” chuckled old Penelope in most witch-like manner. “Oho! ... ‘no, no!’ quo’ she!... An’ ’er so proud an’ arl! But I know, aye, ol’ Pen knows! For I loved once when the world was younger an’ kinder.... I were tall then, and nigh prideful as you, afore age an’ sorrow bent me an’ love humbled me. Love? Aye, but ’twas worth the pain, for ’twas a love hath sweetened the bitter o’ the long, weary years, an’ cheered my loneliness ... a love as I shall tak’ wi’ me to a better place an’ find Happiness at last, maybe—Happiness ... after s’much bitter solitude!” Suddenly the old eyes were upturned to the radiant heaven, their fierceness was softened by the glitter of slow-gathering, painful tears; and then, upon that bowed and aged shoulder came a hand, a gentle hand yet strong, for all its white delicacy; and my lady spoke in voice Sir John had never heard from her before: “Art so very lonely?” “Lonely?” The word was a groan, and the drooping shoulders sank lower. “I’ve been a lone soul all my days—wi’ none to care for me since HE died, an’ none to tak’ my part except Jarge and Sir Hector ... the liddle children mock me ... the women be worse! An’ I du be gettin’ that old and weary!... Sometimes I can scarce brave it any more!”... “Wilt take me for thy friend, old Penelope?” The old woman lifted white head proudly as any person of quality might have done and stared at my lady keenly, then reached up and patted the hand upon her shoulder. “’Tis come too late!” sighed she. “You be too young an’ I be too old for friendship ... but I thank ye kindly.” “Then you’ll suffer me to come and talk with you sometimes, Penelope?” “Why, ye see, the roof leaks, an’ the chimbley smokes——” “The more shame to Sir John Dering!” exclaimed my lady fiercely.