ungraciously, he wishes the queen had been farther away that day, but he supposes she will have it so; and she gives the six citizens each his life, his liberty, a good suit of clothes and a banquet—the last being esteemed not the least of the gifts after their long diet on dogs and horses. All this dear old Froissart tells, and it does not impair its acceptation in history that he evolved the whole incident from his inner consciousness—any more than does the fact that good parson Weems invented the incident of George Washington and the cherry tree injure that story’s currency. In fact, sober history of those times is more marvelous than anything that even the imaginative Froissart could invent. Calais remained an English stronghold and base of English operations in France for two hundred years. It is now 1347, and all England gives itself up to months of festivity, and patting its own back for its French feats. There are brilliant tournaments and balls, in which the captive king of Scotland and captive French nobles take part as heartily as if they were victors. The Noble Order of the Garter is established with imposing ritual and brilliant festivities, and St. George becomes England’s titular saint. Now occurs Edward’s attempted intrigue with the Countess of Salisbury, who is as wise, brave and pure as she is beautiful. The noble part she played makes her, in our eyes, a greater heroine than Phillippa and “the two Janes.” She taught Edward such a lesson of propriety that he was able to turn her own confusion at a court ball into a lesson in modesty to the tittering lords and ladies, as he clasped the lost garter on his own knee and said, “_Evil be to him who evil thinks_.” And so it comes that the highest order of English nobility and the noble motto on her coat of arms commemorates a pure woman’s holding fast to her integrity. Is not this the best of all the vignettes?