‘Help me to seal these packets, my dear,’ said she to the maid-of-honour, as the latter approached her table; ‘my fingers are perfectly stiff with holding a pen. No wonder my forefathers esteemed the art of writing a disgrace, and swore that the grasp of a noble hand should never close on anything lighter than a lance. I often wish I was a man, to wear steel on my breast and at my side!’ While she spoke she stretched her beautiful fingers, which did indeed look far too delicate to wield any weapon heavier than a needle, and pushing the state seal across to her maid-of-honour, threw herself back in her chair, as if thoroughly tired with her day’s work. Mary Hamilton occupied herself at once about her task, affixing the seal of Scotland, with its lion rampant and its crown-royal, to document after document, in a graceful, womanly way that attracted the Queen’s notice, and caused her to regard her favourite maid-of-honour with more attention than common. The latter was always pale, and unusually quiet in her demeanour, but of late she had become paler than ever, and her customary repose of manner had subsided into dejection. Without obvious ailment, she looked listless and out of spirits, languid in her movements, and far too grave for one so young. Herself wearied and harassed, it struck the Queen particularly to-night, and she could not forbear noticing it. ‘You are ill, Mary,’ said she, ‘and worse than that, you are unhappy. What is it? there is something the matter!’ ‘Nothing, madam,’ answered the other, looking up with a transparent effort at cheerfulness. ‘How can I be unhappy when I am at Holyrood, and near your Majesty?’ She did not say it in the complacent tone of a courtier, but with a warmth and sincerity that could not have been assumed, her large dark eyes moistening and shining in the lamplight. She thought she loved the Queen better than anything on earth, and so she did--save one. ‘I know you are fond of me, child,’ answered the Queen affectionately; ‘that does not make me the less anxious about you. I think of all my Maries you are the most dependent upon me. Have a care, my dear! there seems to be a fatality about Mary Stuart. Those who love me best seem ever to be the most unfortunate.’ She spoke mournfully, and in an abstracted tone. Was she thinking of her dead bridegroom who had worshipped her? of the mother who had doated on her? of the loyal and brave and the true already proscribed, banished, or disgraced? was it memory or foreboding, the sorrows of the past or fears for the future, that thus so often cast a gloom over her spirit, and damped her royal courage at her need? ‘Do you think that would not make me love you ten times more?’ exclaimed the other with a flash from her glorious eyes that lighted up her whole face. ‘Can there be love without sacrifice, madam? Nay,’ she added in a sadder voice, ‘can there even be love without suffering?’