Surprised, but pleased by the queen’s gentle manner, Betty drew near and stood in an attitude of quiet attention. Anne sat looking at her sadly, and so long that she became embarrassed, and the color mantled richly in her cheeks. “You are marvellously lovely,” said the queen, at last; “yet I, who once so prized my own beauty, have begun to think it of little value, and that the price we pay for its exaltation is too great. Tread carefully, my maid, else it will bring you only misery.” “I have been taught to place small value on it, your grace,” Betty answered soberly, “I was fortunate in my schooling.” “Alas!” said Anne, “I would it had been so with me; but I was bred in France and, save for good Master Latimer, there have been few to tell the truth to me.” She paused, and her eyes rested thoughtfully upon the ground, and Betty stood uncertain whether to withdraw or remain, and for a few moments there was an uneasy silence. Then the queen looked up again. “Mistress Carew,” she said abruptly, “you were at Kimbolton?” Betty flushed with surprise. “Only for a little while, madam,” she said. “Were you chosen by--” she hesitated and then added clearly, “by the late queen?” “No,” replied Betty, quietly, “I know not the manner of my selection. One winter night Master Raby came down to Mohun’s Ottery with letters from my lord privy seal, and in the morning my uncle took me to Kimbolton.” “Ah, my lord privy seal was then over-zealous in my cause, albeit now he cools,” said Anne, thoughtfully; “doubtless you were sent in the room of one she would have chosen, had she had any choice. Alack!” she added in a strange voice, “’tis little more than a month since I rejoiced at her passing away and believed myself at last the Queen of England; but now--great heaven! how like a quicksand is the heart of man, and swallows up all things that touch it! Maiden, I have heard the stories of Catherine’s death--were they true?” “Ay, madam,” said Betty, firmly; “she died like a Christian, and royally--like a queen; albeit the first estate is higher than the last.” “And I was sorry that she made so good an end,” said Anne Boleyn, musingly; “and yet she never harmed me, even when I held her high place against her. I knew her; she was an austere woman and unlovely, yet, as you said, a Christian. My girl,” she added, turning suddenly to Betty, “which would you love, her or me?” Mistress Carew stood blushing, tongue-tied, for in her heart she had ever condemned this fair woman; but now, under the spell of her glance and voice, her resolution faltered. Anne, accustomed to reading the faces of those about her, read at a glance the trouble in the young girl’s heart.