The Queen could not refrain from a sigh of relief when her step-daughter had retired to the Cockpit; and after seeking her sleepless bed, she begged Anne, “if it did not too much incommode her, to read to her from the Gospel.”

The next day was Sunday, and Anne felt almost as if deserting her cause, when going to the English service in Whitehall Chapel Royal, now almost emptied except of the Princess’s suite, and some of these had the bad taste and profanity to cough and chatter all through the special prayer drawn up by the Archbishop for the King’s safety.

People were not very reverent, and as all stood up at the end of the Advent Sunday service to let the Princess sweep by in her glittering green satin petticoat, peach-coloured velvet train, and feather-crowned head, she laid a hand on Anne’s arm, and whispered, “Follow me to my closet, little Woodford.”

There was no choice but to obey, as the Queen would not require her reader till after dinner, and Anne followed after the various attendants, who did not seem very willing to forward a private interview with a possible rival, though, as Anne supposed, the object must be to convey some message to the Queen.  By the time she arrived and had been admitted to the inner chamber or dressing-room, the Princess had thrown off her more cumbrous finery, and sat at ease in an arm-chair.  She nodded her be-curled head, and said, “You can keep a secret, little Woodie?”

“I can, madam, but I do not love one,” said Anne, thinking of her most burthensome one.

“Well, no need to keep this long.  You are a good young maiden, and my own poor mother’s godchild, and you are handy and notable.  You deserve better preferment than ever you will get in that Popish household, where your religion is in danger.  Now, I am not going to be in jeopardy here any longer, nor let myself be kept hostage for his Highness.  Come to my rooms at bedtime.  Slip in when I wish the Queen good-night, and I’ll find an excuse.  Then you shall come with me to—­no, I’ll not say where, and I’ll make your fortune, only mum’s the word.”

“But—­Your Royal Highness is very good, but I am sworn to the Prince and Queen.  I could not leave them without permission.”

“Prince!  Prince!  Pretty sort of a Prince.  Prince of brickbats, as Churchill says.  Nay, girl, don’t turn away in that fashion.  Consider.  Your religion is in danger.”

“Nay, madam, my religion would not be served by breaking my oath.”

“Pooh!  What’s your oath to a mere pretender?  Besides, consider your fortune.  Rocker to a puling babe—­even if he was what they say he is.  And don’t build on the Queen’s favour—­even if she remains what she is now, she is too much beset with Papists and foreigners to do anything for you.”

“I do not,” Anne began to say, but the Princess gave her no time.

“Besides, pride will have a fall, and if you are a good maid, and hold your tongue, and serve me well in this strait, I’ll make you my maid of honour, and marry you so that you shall put Lady before your name.  Ay, and get good preferment for your uncle, who has had only a poor stall from the King here.”