"Nor only that, but the Princess Sophia so laid it to heart, that 'twas the main cause of her sudden death."

"It really was so?"

"Upon honour, my Lord; my Lady Delawarr had it from Mrs Rosamond Harley."

"Ha! then 'tis like to be true. You heard, I doubt not, Sir, of D'Urfey's jest on the Princess Sophia?--ha, ha, ha!" and the Bishop laughed, as if the recollection amused him exceedingly.

"No, I scarce think I did, my Lord."

"Not? Ah, then, give me leave to tell it you. I hear it gave the Queen extreme diversion.

"'The crown is too weighty For shoulders of eighty-- She could not sustain such a trophy: Her hand, too, already Has grown so unsteady, She can't hold a sceptre: So Providence kept her Away--poor old dowager Sophy!'"

Sir Richard threw his head back, and indulged in unfeigned merriment.

Phoebe, in her corner, felt rather indignant. Why should the Princess Sophia, or any other woman, be laughed at solely for growing old?

"Capital good jest!" said the Baronet, his amus.e.m.e.nt over. "I heard from a friend that I met at the Bath, that the Queen is looking vastly well this summer--quite rid of her gout."

"So do I hear," returned the Bishop. "What think you of the price set on the Pretender's head?"

Sir Richard whistled.

"The Queen's own sole act, without any concurrence of her Ministers,"

continued the Bishop.

"Dear, dear!" exclaimed Sir Richard. "Five thousand, I was told?"

"Five thousand. An excellent notion, I take it."

"Well--I--don't--know!" slowly answered Sir Richard. "I cannot but feel very doubtful of the mischievous consequence that may ensue. A price on the head of the Prince of Wales! Sounds bad, my Lord--sounds bad!

Though, indeed, he be not truly the Queen's brother, yet 'tis unnatural for his sister to set a price on his head."

By which remark it will be seen that Sir Richard's intellect was not of the first order. The intellect of Bishop Atterbury was: and a slightly contemptuous smile played on his lips for a moment.

"'The Prince of Wales!'" repeated he. "Surely, Sir, you have more wit than to credit that baseless tale? Why not set a price on the Pretender?"

Be it known to the reader, though it was not to Sir Richard, that on that very morning Bishop Atterbury had forwarded a long letter to the Palace of Saint Germain, in which he addressed the aforesaid Pretender as "your Majesty," and a.s.sured him of his entire devotion to his interests.

"Oh, come, I leave the whys and wherefores to yon gentlemen of the black robe!" answered Sir Richard, laughing. "By the way, talking of prices, have you heard the prodigious price Sir Nathaniel Fowler hath given for his seat in the Commons? Six thousand pounds, 'pon my honour!"

"Surely, Sir, you have been misinformed. Six thousand! 'Tis amazing."

"Your Lordship may well say so. Why, I gave but eight hundred for mine.

By the way, there is another point I intended to acquaint you of, my Lord. Did you hear, ever, that there should be a little ill-humour with my Lord Oxford, on account of--you know?"

"On account? Oh!" and the Bishop's right hand was elevated to his lips, in the att.i.tude of a person drinking. "Yes, yes. Well, I cannot say I am entirely ignorant of that affair. Sir Jeremy's lady a.s.sured me she knew, beyond contradiction, that my Lord Oxford once waited on her, somewhat foxed."

Of course, "she" was the Queen. But why a fox, usually as sober a beast as others, should have been compelled to lend its name to the vocabulary of intoxication, is not so apparent.

"Absolutely drunk, I heard," responded Sir Richard; "and she was prodigiously angered. Said to my Lady Masham, that if it were ever repeated, she would take his stick from him that moment. Odd, if the ministry were to fall for such a nothing as that."

"Well, 'twas not altogether reverential to the sovereign," said the Bishop; "and the Queen is extreme nice, you know."

The threat of taking the stick from a minister was less figurative in Queen Anne's days than now. The white wand of office was carried before every Cabinet Minister, not only in his public life, but even in private.

At this point a third gentleman joined the others, and they moved away, leaving Phoebe in her corner.

Phoebe sat meditating, for n.o.body had spoken to her, when she felt a soft gloved hand laid upon her arm. She turned, suddenly, to look up into a face which she thought at first was the face of a stranger.

Then, in a moment, she knew Gatty Delawarr.

The small-pox had changed her terribly--far more than her sister. No one could think of setting her up for a beauty now. The soft, peach-like complexion, which had been Gatty's best point, was replaced by a sickly white, pitifully seamed with the scars of the dread disease.

"You did not know me at first," said Gatty, quietly, as if stating a fact, not making an inquiry.

"I do now," answered Phoebe, returning Gatty's smile.

"Well, you see the Lord made a way for me. But it is rather a rough one, Phoebe."

"I am afraid you must have suffered _very_ much, Mrs Gatty."

"Won't you drop the Mistress? I would rather. Well, yes, I suffered, Phoebe; but it was worse since than just then."

Phoebe's face, not her tongue, said, "In what manner?"

"'Tis not very pleasant, Phoebe, to have everybody bewailing you, and telling all their neighbours how cruelly you are changed, but I could have stood that. Nor is it delightful to have Molly for ever at one's elbow, calling one Mrs Baboon, and my Lady Venus, and such like; but I could have stood that, though I don't like it. But 'tis hard to be told I have disappointed my mother's dearest hopes, and that she will never take any more pleasure in me; that she would to Heaven I had died in my cradle. That stings sometimes. Then, to know that if one makes the least slip, it will be directly, 'Oh, your saints are no better than other folks!' Phoebe, I wish sometimes that I had not recovered."

"Oh, but you must not do that, Mrs Gatty!--well, Gatty, then, as you are so kind. The Lord wanted you for something, I suppose."

"I wonder for what!" said Gatty.

"Well, we can't tell yet, you see," replied Phoebe, simply. "I suppose you will find out by and bye."

"I wish I could find out," said Gatty, sighing.

"I think He will show you, when He is ready," said Phoebe. "Father used to say that it took a good deal longer to make a fine microscope than it did to make a common chisel or hammer; and he thought it was the same with us. I mean, you know, that if the Lord intends us to do very nice work, He will be nice in getting us ready for it, and it may take a good while. And father used to say that we seldom know what G.o.d is doing with us while He does it, but only when He has finished."

"Nice," at that time, had not the sense of pleasant, but only that of delicately particular.

"I am glad you have told me that, Phoebe. I wish your father had been living now."

"Oh!" very deep-drawn, from Phoebe, echoed the wish.

"Phoebe, I want you to tell me where you get your patience?"

"My patience!" repeated astonished Phoebe.

"Yes; I think you are the most patient maid I know."

"I can't tell you, I am sure!" answered Phoebe, in a rather puzzled tone. "I didn't know I was patient. I don't think I have often asked for that, specially. Very often, I ask G.o.d to give me what He sees I need; and if that be as you say, I suppose He saw I wanted it, and gave it me."