Sir Launcelot had many of the qualities which command the regard of boys--an indifference to expenditure sustained by the Fortunatus purse of an unbounded capacity for getting into debt, which passed for generosity ("if the worst comes to the worst," said he; "I can but make interest with the king, for a monopoly"); a wit never too heavily weighted to wheel sharp round on an assailant; skill and quickness in all the accomplishments of a cavalier, from commanding a squadron of horse to tuning a lady's lute; a dashing courage which shrank from no bodily danger; (brave I could not call him, for to be brave is a quality of the spirit, and spirit it was very difficult to conceive Sir Launcelot had, except such as there is in a mettlesome horse); a kindly instinct which would make him take care of his horses or dogs, or fling a piece of money to a crying child; or in the wars share his rations with a hungry soldier (plundering the next Puritan cottage to repay himself). For cruel he was not, at least not for cruelty's sake; if his pleasures, whether at the bull-baiting or bear-baiting, or of other baser kinds proved cruelty to others, that was not his intention, it was only an attendant accident, not, ("of course,") to be avoided, since life was short and enjoyment must be had, follow what might. But of all that went on in the tennis-court and the riding-ground I knew little, except such glimpses as I have given, until long afterwards, when Lettice, who heard it from her brothers told me; Roger scorning to breathe a word of complaint on the subject, either while at the Hall or after our return. But oh! the joy when one morning my Father came up to the Hall with two led horses following him, the speechless joy with which, rushing down from Lady Lucy's drawing chamber, I met him at the great door and threw myself into his arms as he dismounted. "Why, Olive," he said, "you are like a small whirlwind." Yet I shed many tears when the moment came to go. Lady Lucy, if no more a serene goddess, and embodiment of perfect womanhood to me, was in some sense more by being less. I loved her as a dear, loving, mother-like woman. Her tender words that night by my bedside--"Olive, I am not all or half I would be. But I could not bear to be distrusted by you"--and all her frank, gracious, considerate self-forgetful ways had made my heart cling with a true, reverent tenderness to her, far deeper rooted than my old idolatry. And Lettice, generous, eager, willful as the wind, truthful as the light, now imperious as an empress, now self-distrustful and confiding as a little child, her sweet changing beauty seemed to me only the necessary raiment of the ever-changing, varying, yet, constant heart, that glowed in the brilliant flush of her cheek, and beamed or flashed through her eye.