The next morning brought me yet greater perplexity, I slept in a light closet in a turret off the Lady Lucy's chamber. The Lady Lucy's own gentle woman came in to dress me, but before she appeared I was already arrayed, and was kneeling at the window-seat of my little arched window, reading my mother's psalms. I thought she came to call me to prayers, with which we always began the day at home; my father reading a psalm at daybreak and offering a short solemn prayer in the Hall, where all the men and maidens were gathered, after which we sat down at one table to breakfast as the family had done since the days of Queen Elizabeth. But when I asked her if she came for this, she smiled, and said it was not a saint's day, so that it was not likely the whole household would assemble, though no doubt my Lady and Mistress Lettice would attend service with the chaplain in the chapel. But she said I might attend Lady Lucy in her chamber before she rose, I gladly accepted, and Lady Lucy invited me to partake of a new kind of confection called chocolate, brought from the Indies by the Spaniards, which finding I could not relish, she sent for a cup of new milk and a manchet of fine milk-bread on which I breakfasted. Then she began her dressing; and then ensued my second stage of disenchantment. Out of the many crystal and porcelain vases on the table, her gentlewoman took powders and paints, and to my unutterable amazement actually began to tint with rose-colour Lady Lucy's checks, and to lay a delicate ivory-white on her brow. She made no mystery of it; but I suppose she saw the horror in my eyes, for she laughed and said,-- "You are watching me little Olive, with great eyes, as if I were Red Riding Hood's wolf-grand-mother. What is the matter?" I could not answer, but I felt myself flush crimson, and I remember that the only word that seemed as if it could come to my lips, was "Jezebel." I quite hated myself for the thought; the Lady Lucy was so tender and good! Yet all the day, through the service in the chapel, and my plays with Lettice, and my quiet sitting on my favorite footstool at Lady Lucy's feet, those terrible words haunted me like a bad dream: "and she painted her face and tired her head and looked out at a window." A thousand times I drove them away. I repeated to myself how she loved my mother, how my father honored her, how gracious and tender she was to me and to all. Still the words came back, with the visions of the false curls, and the paint, and the powder. And I could have cried with vexation that I had ever seen these. For I felt sure Lady Lucy was inwardly as sweet and true as I had believed, and that these were only little court customs quite foreign to her nature, to which she as a great lady had to submit, but which no more made her heart bad than the washed hands and platters made the Pharisees good. Yet the serene and perfect image was broken, and do what I would I could not restore it.