This little extemporised bivouac, as it were, with her domestics, delighted the young belle. Vanity of vanities, as Mr. Thackeray and King Solomon cry out in turn. Silver trays and powdered footmen, and Utrecht, velvet upholstery—miserable comforters! What saloon was ever so cheery as this, or flashed all over in so small a light so splendidly, or yielded such immortal nectar from chased teapot and urn, as this brewed in brown crockery from the roaring kettle?
So Margery, sitting upon her stool in the background—for the Queen had said it, and sit she must—and grinning from ear to ear, in a great halo of glory, partook of tea.
'Well, Tamar, where's your story?' said the young lady.
'Story! La! bless you, dear Miss Radie, where should I find a story? My old head's a poor one to remember,' whimpered white Tamar.
'Anything, no matter what—a ghost or a murder.'
Old Tamar shook her head.
'Or an elopement?'
Another shake of the head.
'Or a mystery—or even a dream?'
'Well—a dream! Sometimes I do dream. I dreamed how Master Stanley was coming, the night before.'