“It would please me well enough, fair niece,” Carew answered gravely, “but there be others, and I would fain do my duty by you and them. Therefore you will stay with my good cousin, Lady Crabtree, until I see fit to take you home.” Mistress Betty bit her lip. This settled the matter for her, but it wounded her pride to be a dependent on her uncle’s bounty and be tossed about at his will. Nor did her new guardian attract her. However, she could only submit to fate, and she was compelled to remain standing by Lady Crabtree while Sir William mingled with the company, where he found many acquaintances. “Do not take it to heart, wench,” the old woman remarked, her shrewd eyes detecting Betty’s sensations; “you will love this place too well erelong to leave it. ’Tis no spot for any girl to mope in, and you are not of the moping kind, I think. Dost know any of the great people here to-day?” “None but the king and queen,” Betty replied, turning her eyes upon the gay scene, which was almost bewildering to one who had lived the retired life that she had. “Poor child! ’tis dull to know so little of the great folk here,” said Mrs. Wyatt, who still stood by Lady Crabtree; “yonder is my lord of Canterbury, and beside him, Master Latimer, whom the queen has made Bishop of Worcester. Ay, the queen,” she repeated, in reply to Betty’s questioning glance; “he was her grace’s chaplain, and she so wrought upon the king that he is a bishop; and because he spoke hard truth to her. And that goodly youth to the left there is his grace of Richmond.” “Ay, and ’tis a pity that the king can get no other son so fair,” said Lady Crabtree, sharply; “’tis a punishment.” “How can you tell what may happen in a short while?” retorted Mrs. Wyatt, with emphasis. “No boy,” said the old woman, calmly; “if we have much more ill luck, ’twill be the King of Scots.” “They will nab thee as a traitor yet, if thy tongue wags so free, my lady,” said Mrs. Wyatt, with a startled glance about her; but her odd companion only laughed grimly. “Look there, Mistress Betty,” she added in a moment; “’tis our relative, the master of horse, Nicholas Carew, and yonder is his grace of Exeter and that pretty boy, Courtenay. What would you say, Mistress Wyatt, if I prophesied that he would be a king of England?” “Hold your tongue, madam, or surely you will lose your ears,” replied Mrs. Wyatt, but smiled at her companion’s manner. “They can but roast me at the best, as they did the poor folks from Holland who held such queer notions, which were doubtless no better or sounder for the cooking,” returned Lady Crabtree, laughing harshly. “Look you, Wyatt, they would have treated Latimer as they did these Anabaptists, and now he is a bishop. Presently they will make me a duchess for my sound policy.” Mrs. Wyatt, however, did not heed her; she was looking eagerly at a group across the room. “There is Jane Seymour,” she said quickly, “and she is radiant to-day.”