"Rise up, Sir Lawrence Madison!" "Well, verily, this passeth!" said Guenllian, an hour later, to her subordinate Beatrice, who was busy packing the few absolute necessaries which were to go with the little Lady Anne. "Beattie, heardest the news? Lawrence is made a knight!" Guenllian received no answer except a slight sound which she failed to comprehend. She looked round, and saw that Beatrice was in tears. "Beattie, doth aught ail thee, mine heart?" "Oh, nothing—not—Mistress Wenteline, would you have my Lady’s furred mantle, or no?" "Fur mantle! in August!" exclaimed Guenllian. "Why Beattie, where be thy wits, dear maid? The gear shall all be sent after my little Lady, long ere she lack her furred mantle." "Oh! aye," said Beatrice confusedly. "I only thought—and I have not yet put up her Ladyship’s head-gear." Guenllian looked after her as Beatrice hastily ran upstairs, with a soft laugh such as had never come to her lips since the death of the Earl. "Aye, I conceive you, Mistress Beattie!" said she. "You ’only thought’ that Sir Lawrence Madison had climbed up above Blumond’s Beattie, and was not like to reach forth an hand to help her to a seat at his side. Well, we shall see what we shall see. But if Lolly be he that shall forget the old friends in the hovel for the new at the castle, then is Guenllian ap Evan no prophetess." The packing was all done, and the preparations made for the long journey to Wigmore Abbey. It had been arranged that the ladies should go no further than Usk, for the Countess had intimated that her deep despondency would not permit her to attend the funeral. Her heart was so nearly broken that another ounce-weight of grief would complete the catastrophe. Lady Agnes repeated the statement to Guenllian with grave lips, but with a twinkle of fun in her eyes which sufficiently indicated that the real character and private intentions of this disconsolate widow were no secret to her. To Lady Agnes this was pure amusement: to Guenllian it resulted in a mixture of contempt and sorrow. Lord Bardolf of course, would attend the funeral, having now resigned all official duties to the new Viceroy: and Lawrence Madison had intimated that no power short of a royal command should keep him from it. He would follow the friend and master whom he had loved so dearly, to the last step where man can go with man. His new honours had rendered Lawrence his own master, free to take service where he would, or to refrain from it at his pleasure: and to sink into the idle attitude of a hanger on the train of the Lady Alianora was far from Lawrence’s conception either of happiness or duty.