Of Humfrey Talbot, Queen Mary scorned to say anything, or to utter a syllable that she thought a daughter of Scotland needed a warning against a petty English sailor.  Indeed, she had confidence that the youth’s parents would view the attachment as quite as undesirable for him as for the young princess, and would guard against it for his sake as much as for hers.

The true parting took place ere the household was astir.  Afterwards, Mary, fully equipped for travelling, in a dark cloth riding-dress and hood, came across to the great hall of the Manor-house, and there sat while each one of the attendants filed in procession, as it were, before her.  To each lady she presented some small token wrought by her own hands.  To each gentleman she also gave some trinket, such as the elaborate dress of the time permitted, and to each serving man or maid a piece of money.  Of each one she gravely but gently besought pardon for all the displeasures or offences she might have caused them, and as they replied, kissing her hand, many of them with tears, she returned a kiss on the brow to each woman and an entreaty to be remembered in their prayers, and a like request, with a pressure of the hand, to each man or boy.

It must have been a tedious ceremony, and yet to every one it seemed as if Mary put her whole heart into it, and to any to whom she owed special thanks they were freely paid.

The whole was only over by an hour before noon.  Then she partook of a manchet and a cup of wine, drinking, with liquid eyes, to the health and prosperity of her good host, and to the restoration of his family peace, which she had so sorely, though unwittingly, disturbed.

Then she let him hand her out, once more kissing Susan Talbot and Cis, who was weeping bitterly, and whispering to the latter, “Not over much grief, ma petite; not more than may befit, ma mignonne.”

Lord Shrewsbury lifted her on her horse, and, with him on one side and Sir Ralf Sadler on the other, she rode down the long avenue on her way to Wingfield.

The Bridgefield family had already made their arrangements, and their horses were waiting for them amid the jubilations of Diccon and Ned.  The Queen had given each of them a fair jewel, with special thanks to them for being good brothers to her dear Cis.  “As if one wanted thanks for being good to one’s own sister,” said Ned, thrusting the delicate little ruby brooch on his mother to be taken care of till his days of foppery should set in, and he would need it for cap and plume.

“Come, Cis, we are going home at last,” said Diccon.  “What! thou art not breaking thine heart over yonder Scottish lady—­when we are going home, home, I say, and have got rid of watch and ward for ever?  Hurrah!” and he threw up his cap, and was joined in the shout by more than one of the youngsters around, for Richard and most of the elders were escorting the Queen out of the park, and Mistress Susan had been summoned on some question of household stuff.  Cis, however, stood leaning against the balustrade, over which she had leant for the last glance exchanged with her mother, her face hidden in her hands and kerchief, weeping bitterly, feeling as if all the glory and excitement of the last few weeks had vanished as a dream and left her to the dreary dulness of common life, as little insignificant Cis Talbot again.