Of other personages whose acquaintance I made in England—­excepting always His Majesty, and my master, Charles the Second—­I neither speak nor think very much now.  My Cousin Tom died of an apoplexy three years after I left England, and God knows who hath Hare Street House to-day!  His Majesty James the Second, as all the world knows, made a most excellent end of it in France, dying as he had never lived till after his coming to France, a very humble and Christian soul.  In regard to Mr. Chiffinch, I think of him sometimes and wonder what kind of an end he made.  He was very reprobate while I knew him; yet he had the gift of fidelity, and that, I think, must count for something before God who gave it him.  Of the ladies of the Court I know nothing at all, nor how they fared nor how they ended, nor even if they are all dead yet—­I mean such ladies as was Her Grace of Portsmouth.

But all of them I commend to God every day in my mass living or dead; and trust that all may have found the mercy of God, or may yet find it.  But most of all I remember at the altar the names of two persons, than between whom there could be no greater difference in this world—­the names of Dorothy Mary Jermyn, the least of all sinners; and of Charles Stuart, King of England, the greatest of all sinners, yet a penitent one.  For these are the two whom I have loved as I can never love any others.