“I am sincerely glad,” said Lady Powys, “that Miss Woodford has met her friends.”

“Also,” said Madame de Bellaise, “Lady Powys is good enough to say that if mademoiselle will honour me with a visit, she gives permission for her to return with me to Paris.”

This was still greater joy, except for that one recollection, formidable in the midst of her joy, of her dress.  Did Madame de Bellaise divine something? for she said, “These times remind me of my youth, when we poor cavalier families well knew what sore straits were.  If mademoiselle will bring what is most needful, the rest can be sent afterwards.”

Making her excuses for the moment, Anne with light and gladsome foot sped along the stately alley, up the stairs to her chamber, round which she looked much as if it had been a prison cell, fell on her knees in a gush of intense thankfulness, and made her rapid preparations, her hands trembling with joy, and a fear that she might wake to find all again a dream.  She felt as if this deliverance were a token of forgiveness for her past wilfulness, and as if hope were opened to her once more.  Lady Powys met her as she came down, and spoke very kindly, thanking her for her services, and hoping that she would enjoy the visit she was about to make.

“Does your ladyship think Her Majesty will require me any longer?” asked Anne timidly.

“If you wish to return to the country held by the Prince of Orange,” said the Countess coldly, “you must apply for dismissal to Her Majesty herself.”

Anne perceived from the looks of her friends that it was no time for discussing her loyalty, and all taking leave, she was soon seated beside Madame de Bellaise, while the coach and four rolled down the magnificent avenue, and scene after scene disappeared, beautiful and stately indeed, but which she was as glad to leave behind her as if they had been the fetters and bars of a dungeon, and she almost wondered at the words of admiration of her companions.

Madame de Bellaise sat back, and begged the others to speak English, saying that it was her mother tongue, and she loved the sound of it, but really trying to efface herself, while the eager conversation between the two young people went on about their homes.

Charles had not been there more recently than Anne, and his letters were at least two months old, but the intelligence in them was as water to her thirsty soul.  All was well, she heard, including the little heir of Archfield, though the young father coloured a little, and shuffled over the answers to the inquiries with a rather sad smile.  Charles was, however, greatly improved.  He had left behind him the loutish, unformed boy, and had become a handsome, courteous, well-mannered gentleman.  The very sight of him handing Madame de Bellaise in and out of her coach was a wonder in itself when Anne recollected how he had been wont to hide himself in the shrubbery to prevent being called upon for such services, and how uncouthly in the last extremity he would perform them.