“Ah! my dear good uncle!”
“And had ascertained that you had been chosen to accompany the Queen and Prince in their escape from Whitehall. You have played the heroine, Miss Anne.”
“Oh! if you knew—”
“And,” said Mr. Fellowes, “both he and Sir Philip Archfield requested us, if we could make our way home through Paris, to come and offer our services to Mistress Woodford, in case she should wish to send intelligence to England, or if she should wish to make use of our escort to return home.”
“Oh sir! oh sir! how can I thank you enough! You cannot guess the happiness you have brought me,” cried Anne with clasped hands, tears welling up again.
“You will come with us then,” cried Charles. “I am sure you ought. They have not used you well, Anne; how pale and thin you have grown.”
“That is only pining! I am quite well, only home-sick,” she said with a smile. “I am sure the Queen will let me go. I am nothing but a burthen now. She has plenty of her own people, and they do not like a Protestant about the Prince.”
“There is Madame de Bellaise,” said Mr. Fellowes, “advancing along the walk with Lady Powys. Let me present you to her.”
“You have succeeded, I see,” a kind voice said, as Anne found herself making her courtesy to a tall and stately old lady, with a mass of hair of the peculiar silvered tint of flaxen mixed with white.
“I am sincerely glad,” said Lady Powys, “that Miss Woodford has met her friends.”