“Yes, yes, you are right, my merry Barbara,” replied the Lady Ellinor, and she rose up as she spoke, “we have been prisoners all the day against our will, why should we now be confined when the smile of Nature bids us forth to share her joy.  Come, come! my sweet Anne, you are not wont to be the last,” turning to her friend, who lingered behind.  “Oh!” cried Lady Anne, “I am coming, I will soon be the first amongst you, I only wait a moment to bind up my troublesome hair.”  As she spoke, her eyes rested upon a little volume, which lay upon the broad sill of the casement.  The wind fluttered in the pages, and blew them over and over; and half curiously, half carelessly, she looked again, and yet again.  The word murder caught her eye; her feelings were still in a state of excitement from the tales and legends to which she had just been listening.  Resting her head upon her hand, she leaned over the volume; and stood motionless, absorbed by the interest of the tale which she read, forgetful of her young companions—­of all but the appalling story then before her.

But these feelings were soon lost in astonishment, and horror so confounding, that for awhile she lost all power of moving, or even of thinking.  Still her eyes were fixed upon the words which had pierced her heart:—­she could not force them away.  Again and again, struck with shame and horror, she shrunk away;—­again and again, she found herself forced by doubt, by positive disbelief, to search the terrible pages.  At last she had read enough—­quite, quite enough to be assured, not that her father—­her mother, had been suspected, but that by the law of the land they had been convicted, and condemned to death as foul, adulterous murderers;—­the murderers of Sir Thomas Overbury!

The Lady Ellinor returned alone into the gallery, “You little truant!” she cried, “why so long? you said you would soon be with the foremost.  I thought you must have escaped me, and have sought you through half the garden, and you are here all the while!”

No voice replied:  not a sound was heard; and the Lady Ellinor had already returned to the door of the gallery to seek her friend elsewhere, when something fell heavily to the ground.

She flew back; and in one of the receding windows, she found the Lady Anne lying senseless in a deep swoon.  Throwing herself on the ground beside her, she raised her tenderly in her arms, and not without some difficulty, restored her to herself.  Then laying her head upon her bosom, she whispered kind words.  “You are ill, I fear, my own Anne, who has been here?  What have you seen?  How so changed in this short time?  I left you well and smiling, and now—­nay, my dear, dear friend, do not turn from me, and look so utterly wretched.  Do not you see me!  What can be the matter!” The Lady Anne looked up in her friend’s face with so piteous and desolate a look, that she began to fear her reason was affected.