Moved by pity for the wretched queen, awed by the recognition of the fearful workings of retribution, Betty Carew was filled with amazement, sympathy, unbelief. Finding small matter in common with old Madam, the young girl was much alone. Sitting in her own room, which overlooked the river, or walking through the garden and orchards of the manor house, her mind found plenty of food for reflection. In a few short months she had attended two queens, each doomed to misery,--one a sternly virtuous woman, dying as a Christian should; the other--she could not think of Anne’s great beauty, the attraction of her manner, without commiseration. She had seen her in a brief hour of triumph at Catherine’s death; she knew that it was commonly reported that her malice had pulled down the great cardinal, but she could only think of her in her distress; she heard still her shrieks in the wizard’s house, her anguish at the sight of the king’s gift to Jane Seymour. Betty had been ten days at Deptford, and one morning walked alone in the apple orchard. Beneath her feet the soft green turf was broken here and there by the gnarled root of an apple tree; overhead the low boughs made a network, white and pink with bloom, and through the beauty of the fragrant blossoms she saw the soft blue sky, and before her, through the trees, was the river. The birds sang with the joy of the spring. She went on down to the river bank, and watched the wherries going to London; then, as she came slowly back, she looked up and saw, coming through the avenue of trees, a stalwart figure, and a face she knew. She had not seen Simon Raby since that morning in the quadrangle court, and she blushed a little as she saw the glad look on his face. But she had profited by her lessons in the world, and she met him with an air of demure dignity. “You are welcome, my Lord Raby,” she said gravely; “you have been long in Sussex, and I was sorry that you went on so sad an errand. Sir, I am an orphan too, and do commiserate your case.” Despite his black garments, Simon Raby was wearing a cheerful countenance, having been long separated from his father, a close-fisted man, whose only love was gold, which had made his son run to the opposite extreme. Having little in common, Raby had not felt his loss too deeply; but at this speech from Mistress Betty, he pulled down his face and tried to make a proper answer, although all the while he was thinking how radiant was her dark beauty in the white gown she wore, and what a picture she made with the apple-blooms overhead and in her hands. And she knew his thoughts well enough, but chose to turn the talk away. “How long have you been back in London?” she asked, arranging her flowers; “we have been ten days here, but at this dreadful time it seems much longer.”