“And hath Isoult Barry forgot Anne Basset?”
“My darling Nan!” cried I, “that I should not have known thee.”
“Nay,” saith she, again with her own sweet smile, “’tis no marvel, dear heart, seeing thou hast not seen me for sixteen years.” For I had missed seeing her in the procession at Queen Mary’s coronation.
Then after we had embraced, Philippa said—
“I scantly know, Isoult, if thou wilt be glad to see us, considering the ill news we bring.”
“Why, Philippa, what ill news?” asked I. “I heard of thy brother’s death,—Mr James,—and writ to thee thereupon,”—for methought Philippa had not received my letter.
“Ay, I had thy letter, and I thank thee for it,” answered she. “But hast heard aught further?”
“No,” said I, fearfully. “What is it, Philippa?”
“Kate,” she pursued, “hath brought us woeful news from Potheridge—the death of Frances, twenty days ago.”
“Frances?” I well-nigh startled at mine own cry.