Having abolished the Anglican Church, he would have reinstated it. Anything was better than the wild fanaticism that was overrunning the land—Anabaptists, Quakers, Muggletonians, Fifth Monarchy Men, _et hoc genus omne_, who, all claiming the one divine spirit, seemed animated by a million devils of hatred, pride, and malice. Haunted by memories, saddened by domestic sorrows and bereavements, grown fearful of the pitfalls for his own death lying in his path, the existence of the Lord Protector was one he must have been well willing to break with. Colonel Titus promulgating his views of “Killing no Murder” in his tract; Ralph Syndercombe plotting his bloody deed in the little Shepherd’s Bush cottage; and how many more biding their time? But it was not so the end came to Oliver Cromwell. When he had prayed for peace—the much-needed peace—for the people and for himself, “Lord, pardon them all,” he went on, “and whatever Thou mayst do with me, grant them Thy mercy, and me also. Give them peace.” The dawn of 3rd September broke—the anniversaries of Dunbar and of Worcester, Cromwell’s “lucky day.” Parched with the thirst of his aguish fever, they put a cup of drink to his lips. “I will neither drink nor sleep,” he said. “I am thinking only of making haste. I must depart.” And so he died. And so when Richard Cromwell had just tasted of the cup of dignities his father had left him, and but too gladly set it down again, and retired to his quiet country home in the lanes of Cheshunt, Charles II. was brought in triumph to Whitehall. That home-coming is a tale told too often to tell again here—even though Lady Derby has much to say about it in her graphic correspondence. Many details of how gracious his Majesty was to her, how handsome but for this or that his Queen would be, are mixed up with those of her children’s marriages. When those sons and daughters reached marriageable years, the worst of the Royalist troubles were past. There was no difficulty in their making suitable alliances. Amelia was married to the Earl of Athole. Catherine, less happy in her union, became Marchioness of Dorchester. Mary, “dear Mall,” became Lady Strafford. Two of her sons died while still children. Of absorbing interest to herself—as indeed they all might well be—the incidents of Court life, and the doings of her children and friends, drag somewhat heavily for us, like the more commonplace though dazzling groupings in some stirring drama whose curtain is about to fall.