The royal household at Greenwich was under a cloud. The queen’s illness had disturbed the tranquillity of the new year, and there were whispers that the king was estranged by the loss of his boy, born dead on the 29th of January. Anne had made a slow recovery and had withdrawn herself from the festivities of the court; she chose to be much alone, and wandered in secluded corners of Greenwich Park, often unattended, save by her little dogs. It was an inauspicious time for Mistress Betty to receive an appointment in the household, but she was kindly welcomed by the queen’s other attendants, and took up her new duties with a lighter heart since she had talked with Simon Raby. The young girl, who had been a dependent in her uncle’s house, now found herself a person of some consequence. Each maid of honor was permitted a tirewoman and a little spaniel to attend her, and Betty had a liberal breakfast-table, served with a chine of beef, a manchet and a chet loaf, besides a flagon of beer in which there were no hops. But all the maids of honor dined at mess, and chickens, pigeons, and rabbits were served, as well as beef and manchets and much wine, according to the custom of the time. Their hours of attendance on the queen were ordered by rule, and for the first few days Betty was unnoticed by Anne, and found opportunity to make acquaintance with those about her, and more than once saw Raby, who was at Greenwich as an equerry of the queen. The freedom of her life at Mohun’s Ottery and Wildrick made the more confining office of maid of honor irksome, and the young girl took every opportunity to walk out into the park. She loved best the early morning hours, when few were stirring outside the palace, and she found her best amusement in these solitary strolls. It was thus, one morning, that she came upon the queen, also alone. Mistress Carew was returning from her walk, and entered the quadrangle court, where the morning sunlight was shining with little power. She was startled by the sight of the queen, sitting on a stone bench a little way before her. Anne Boleyn was alone, and sat watching her little dogs, who were playing in front of her, tossing a ball between them, snapping and barking in the abandonment of canine joy. The queen was dressed in red damask, a deep cape of black velvet edged with fur hanging over her shoulders, and on her head a five-cornered black velvet hood trimmed with pearls. So absorbed was she in thought that she did not at first notice the presence of her maid of honor, and Betty had time to note the changes made by illness in her face, and she thought, too, that she had been weeping. Unwilling to disturb her revery, the young girl made an effort to pass her unnoticed; but Anne, hearing the rustle of her skirts, looked up. For a moment there was no recognition in her eyes, and then she remembered the beautiful face. “’Tis Mistress Carew,” she said, in her soft voice; “come hither, I would speak with thee.”