Mary suddenly closed her eyes.
"Your mother," she said softly, "do you remember her?"
He answered under his breath—
"Yes. Your name, my dear, your family, should I not remember her?"
"When she died she was no older than I am—I often think how strangely near her grave is. I think that Chapel in Westminster a sad spot. But if we live with our thoughts on Death how can we be afraid? God would not let one be afraid."
"Why do you speak of death?" asked the King, in a trembling voice. "You frighten me——"
"Ah no," whispered Mary. "Death is not fearful. I have been idle to-day, and thought of many strange things. I recalled a portrait of your mother I found in a desk of yours when I first came to Holland—a limning in little with white violets on the back, and these words, 'J'aime un seul.' That was a pretty thought of hers."
She moved her head restlessly on the red cushions and lifted her heavy lids.
"I would we were at The Hague again," she said wistfully.
"You shall go," he replied impetuously. "When the spring cometh we will go together to The Hague, and be free of all of it——"