"I remember her so well on her fine Barbary mare. How handsome she was! How proud! If the Earl spoke to my father then she would deign to ask after my lessons, or my dog, or how the skating was on the Broad. But she was older than I, and it seems so long ago—lately she has been deaf, dumb and blind to the Cromwells—they do not mind that much now. I wonder where she is." "It was said she would live with her aunt, Lady Jevery; if so, she must be in London." "And you know it not? And you have not seen her? That is a marvel. It was thought impossible for Matilda de Wick and Jane Swaffham to live long apart." "There have been great changes," sighed Jane. "People that were once friends know each other no more. It is hoped now that there will be many reconciliations." "We have seen Lady Heneage often," said Mary Cromwell, "and ’tis said there is a purpose of marriage between Alice Heneage and a favourite of my father’s—Lord Cluny Neville." "I have seen Lord Neville," said Jane. "He brought me your letters and the blue and gold ribbon you sent me. His visits were flying ones; he came and he went." "Like the knight in the story—he loved and he rode away. But we are all mightily taken with his fine manner and his beauty, and the Lord General, my father, thinks him to have great sincerity and discretion." "A very perfect youth," answered Jane with a smile. "Indeed, we think so; if you are of a different opinion you will change it on a better knowledge of the young man. He is coming here this afternoon, is he not, Frank?" "He said so. He was to make some copies of the hymn he wrote, for Mr. Milton has set it to music, and we are to practice the singing together. Father thinks very highly of the words." "Dear me!" ejaculated Jane, "is he also a poet? I thought he wrote only with his sword. I fear that he has too many perfections. Has he not one fault to balance them?" "Yes," answered Mary, "he has one great fault, he is a Presbyterian, and a Scotch Presbyterian. In all other things he holds with the Lord General, but he sticks to his Scotch idols—John Knox and the Covenant." "I think no worse of him for that," said Jane. "If he knew what an Independent was, he would likely be an Independent." "It is not believable," retorted Mary. "He is a Scotchman, or next door to one. And if a man is a Samaritan, what can he know of Jerusalem?" "I care not what he is," said Frances. "He has handsome eyes, and he writes poetry, and he tells such stories as make your blood run cold—and sometimes love-stories, and then his voice is like music; and if it was not sinful to dance——" "But it is sinful," said Jane warmly, "and if I saw Lord Neville or any other man making mincing steps to a viol I would never wish to speak to him again. Would you, Mary?"