of color, and her form had a new grace from the strength she had acquired
in exercise. We had grown to be dear friends, and the touch of her hand
was a pleasure for which I waited eagerly from day to day. Again I say
thoughts of love for her had never entered my mind. Perhaps their absence
was because of my feeling that they could not possibly exist in her heart
for me.

One evening in November, after the servants had all gone to bed, Sir
George and I went to the kitchen to drink a hot punch before retiring for
the night. I drank a moderate bowl and sat in a large chair before the
fire, smoking a pipe of tobacco, while Sir George drank brandy toddy at
the massive oak table in the middle of the room.

Sir George was rapidly growing drunk. He said: "Dawson tells me that the
queen's officers arrested another of Mary Stuart's damned French friends
at Derby-town yesterday,--Count somebody; I can't pronounce their
miserable names."

"Can you not remember his name?" I asked. "He may be a friend of mine." My
remark was intended to remind Sir George that his language was offensive
to me.

"That is true, Malcolm," responded Sir George. "I beg your pardon. I meant
to speak ill only of Mary's meddlesome friends, who are doing more injury
than good to their queen's cause by their plotting."

I replied: "No one can regret these plots more than I do. They certainly
will work great injury to the cause they are intended to help. But I fear
many innocent men are made to suffer for the few guilty ones. Without your
protection, for which I cannot sufficiently thank you, my life here would