became slovenly and her hair unkept. Her
recreation was making cockle-shell grottoes in
a gaunt back yard with high walls. Yet here
she existed contentedly, feeding her imagination
upon history lessons, till wondrously at
a moment's notice, there would appear the
magic finger beckoning her into the land of
enchantment. And the next day, with smooth
ringlets, and in the delicate white clothing she
liked to wear, little Hester would find her way
back into the stately company of her pictured
friends, and revelling in the congenial
atmosphere of beauty and refinement, would make
herself as rapturously happy as it is possible for
a lonely child to be. Then were there no tasks
to be learned, and no occupation was appointed
for her, but only the following of her sweet
will from morning till night among the flowers
and pictures.

But too soon this brilliant heaven was
overcast. At a moment's notice, and Lady
Humphrey's word, back again she was dropped
into the lower life. The smoky city received
her once more, and the door of the dreary house
shut her in. Here were waiting for her just as
she had left them—the close blank yard and the
rude companions, the threadbare frock and the
shoes with the holes in them, the angry word
and the hasty punishment, the rigid monotony
and the utter unloveliness and unyieldingness
of everything and person, which yearning eyes
might look upon or helpless hands lay hold of.
There were quarrelsome voices for the singing
of the nightingales; a patch of rank weeds,
instead of acres of scent and bloom; boisterous
humanity for delicate dream creations, and slow
movements and a cramped will in exchange for
a royal liberty of foot and fancy.

In her earlier days the woe of the little
heart found its comfort in tears, and, the
passion of the moment over, the child would
content itself, child-fashion, with whatever materials
for amusement might lie in the way. But when
a few years had passed, and an unusual capacity
for grief had grown stronger within her, the
sudden change in her life became more painful,
the conversations of her schoolfellows more
irksome, tears were less frequent with her; but
a grave trouble grew up in her young life, the
trouble of not knowing where her place was to
be in the world. For with a true instinct
Hester felt early that she had won no place in
Lady Humphrey's heart, that her footing on
that enchanted hearthstone under the palace
roof was dependent on the humour of each
moment that passed. And with a sure
foreboding, she felt that any day might find her
shaken off and forgotten.

CHAPTER II. HESTER, SOMEWHAT LATER.

WHEN Hester was twelve years old, she had
rather advanced in Lady Humphrey's favour.
Her progress in learning had pleased the lady,
and she had sent her to a better school. The
gratitude of the little girl was unbounded, and
her efforts to profit by the boon incessant. See
her bending over a book in a schoolroom—
flushed, eager; her frock out at elbows, her
shoes broken, her stockings overrun with darns.
To-morrow she will be at the palace, and there
must be a brave list of triumphs for Lady
Humphrey. A medal is to be won, and some
solemn books, and Lady Humphrey will look
pleased. She will not smile much; but she
will put on a satisfied look, and say approvingly,
"Hester, you will be of use for
something yet." And the vague promise of that
something in prospect is sweet to Hester as the
birds in the boughs.

And a fresh white frock will be handed to
Hester, and it will be delicately frilled and
crimped; and there will be, if not exactly glass
slippers, at least pretty ones of black silk with
shining buckles. And there will be Shakespeare
on the drawing-room table, the mark in its
pages never moved since Hester closed the
volume last holiday. And she will nestle in the
firelight by the glittering hearthplace with the
book. And perhaps she will suddenly start to
find that unconsciously her fancy has been
clothing Lady Macbeth with the outward form
and features of Lady Humphrey. And she will
shudder and veil her eyes, lest her patroness
should read the cruel libel in her glance. But
the lady does not think of her so often, nor look
at her so closely as to notice when a cloud or a
shining light is to be seen on her eager face.

Then in the evening the stiff brocade curtains
(so different from Miss Hemisphere's dull green
damask) will be drawn across the windows, and
the wax candles will be lit all through the rare
chambers, and the fire will pour its ruddy
splendour over the curious andirons, burning
grandly and with dignity as a fire should burn,
under the roof where kings and queens have
made their home. And the few dark pictures
on the walls will retire farther than ever into
obscurity, and only just peer in ghostly fashion
from their frames. On the table in the corner
with its cover of Indian embroidery will be set
forth the tiny, exquisite service of china and
silver in which Lady Humphrey is wont to
dispense tea to her guests. And the lady's little
page in his fantastic costume will be tripping
about, arranging seats in expectation of visitors.
Lady Humphrey does not see company on an
extended scale however. A few antique beaux
and dowagers will drink her coffee and play
whist at her card tables. And of these, though
Hester has seen them coming and going for
years, and knows every nodding, powdered
head and painted smirk by heart, as she does
the pictures in the gallery, yet she recognises
the identity of not a single one amongst them.
They are all illustrious personages of history,
the guests of bygone kings.

The first blush of morning will find her
abroad, encountering his dread majesty upon
the king's staircase. For the fierce Henry
and his great cardinal walking about Hampton
Court are as familiar to her as Miss
Hemisphere or Lady Humphrey. Elizabeth will
hold a pageant at high noon in the greenwood,
and later, Lady Jane Grey reveals herself,