Lady Churchill, with her long neck, splendid hair and complexion, short chin, and sparkling blue eyes, was beautiful to look at, but not at all disposed to be agreeable to the Queen’s ladies, whom she treated with a sort of blunt scorn, not at all disguised by the forms of courtesy.  However, she had, to their relief, a good deal of leave of absence just then to visit her children, as indeed the ladies agreed that she did pretty much as she chose, and that the faithful Mrs. Morley was somewhat afraid of the dear Mrs. Freeman.

One evening in coming up some steps Princess Anne entangled her foot in her pink taffetas petticoat, nearly fell, and tore a large rent, besides breaking the thread of the festoons of seed pearls which bordered it, and scattering them on the floor.

“Lack-a-day!  Lack-a-day!” sighed she, as after a little screaming she gathered herself up again.  “That new coat!  How shall I ever face Danvers again such a figure?  She’s an excellent tirewoman, but she will be neither to have nor to hold when she sees that gown—­ that she set such store by!  Nay, I can hardly step for it.”

“I think I could repair it, with Her Majesty’s and your Royal Highness’s permission,” said Anne, who was creeping about on her knees picking up the pearls.”

“Oh! do! do!  There’s a good child, and then Danvers and Dawson need know nothing about it,” cried the Princess in great glee.  “You remember Dawson, don’t you, little Woodie, as we used to call you, and how she used to rate us when we were children if we soiled our frocks?”

So, in the withdrawing-room, Anne sat on the floor with needle and silk, by the light of the wax candles, deftly repairing the rent, and then threading the scattered pearls, and arranging the festoon so as to hide the darn.  The Princess was delighted, and while the poor wife lay back in her chair, thankful that behind her fan she could give way to her terrible anxieties about her little son, who might be crossing to France, and her husband, suffering from fearful nose-bleeding, and wellnigh alone among traitors and deserters, the step-daughter, on the other side of the great hearth, chattered away complacently to ‘little Woodford.’

“Do you recollect old Dawson, and how she used to grumble when I went to sup with the Duchess—­my own mother—­you know, because she used to give me chocolate, and she said it made me scream at night, and be over fat by day?  Ah! that was before you used to come among us.  It was after I went to France to my poor aunt of Orleans.  I remember she never would let us kiss her for fear of spoiling her complexion, and Mademoiselle and I did so hate living maigre on the fast days.  I was glad enough to get home at last, and then my sister was jealous because I talked French better than she did.”

So the Princess prattled on without needing much reply, until her namesake had finished her work, with which she was well pleased, and promised to remember her.  To Anne it was an absolute marvel how she could thus talk when she knew that her husband had deserted her father in his need, and that things were in a most critical position.