with woodcuts of foreign beasts that had been specially printed for the young king’s use.  Did they compare notes about their tutors?  Jane would certainly hold a brief for her much-loved Mr. Elmer, who, in sharp contrast to her parents’ severity, taught her so gently and patiently that she grudged the time which was not spent in his presence.  Edward might bemoan the ill-luck of his whipping-boy, who had to bear the floggings which Court etiquette denied to the royal shoulders, and perhaps would declare that when he was grown up, and could make the laws himself, no children should be beaten for badly said lessons, and Jane would agree with him, and then they would pick the red damask roses that Cardinal Wolsey had planted, and walk back under the shadow of the clipped yew hedge to eat cherries and junket in the room that looked out towards the sunset.

Winona had warmed to her work.  Her imagination, always her strongest faculty, completely carried her away.  She pictured her heroine’s life, not from the outside, as historians would chronicle it, a mere string of events and dates, but from the inner view of a girl’s standpoint.  Did Jane wish to leave her Plato for the bustle of a Court?  Did she care for the gay young husband forced upon her by her ambitious parents?  Surely for her gentle nature a crown held few allurements.  The clouds were gathering thick and fast, and burst in a waterspout of utter ruin.  Jane’s courage was calm and hopeful as that of Socrates in the dialogues she had loved.

        “... your soul was pure and true,
    The good stars met in your horoscope,
    Made you of spirit, fire and dew.”

quoted Winona enthusiastically.  Browning always stirred her blood, and threw her into poetical channels.  She cast about in her mind for any other appropriate verses.

    “Ah, broken is the golden bowl, the spirit gone for ever,
    Let the bell toll—­a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river. 
    Come, let the burial rite be read—­the funeral song be sung,
    An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young,
    A dirge for her, the doubly dead, in that she died so young.”

“So they finished their foul deed, and laid her to rest,” wrote Winona, “the earthly part, that is, which perishes, for the true part of her they could not touch.  Farewell, sweet innocent soul, of whom the world was not worthy.  To you surely may apply Andre de Chenier’s tender lines: 

    “’Au banquet de la vie a peine commence
    Un instant seulement mes levres out presse
    La coupe en mes mains encore pleine.’

Vale, little Queen!  May it be well with thee!  Ave atque vale!”