Yet to Cis the dear company of her mother Susan, even in the Countess’s society, seemed too precious to be resigned, and she had likewise been told that Lady Shrewsbury’s mind had greatly changed towards Mary, and that since the irritation of the captive’s presence had been removed, she remembered only the happier and kindlier portion of their past intercourse.  There had been plenty of quarrels with her husband, but none so desperate as before, and at this present time the Earl and Countess were united against the surviving sons, who, with Gilbert at their head, were making large demands on them.  Cicely felt grateful to the Earl for his absence from Fotheringhay, and, though disappointed of her peaceful home evening, declared she would come up to the Lodge rather than lose sight of “mother.”  The stable people, more considerate than their Lord and Lady, proved to have sent a horse litter for the conveyance of the ladies called out on the wet dark October evening, and here it was that Cis could enjoy her first precious moment of privacy with one for whom she had so long yearned.  Susan rejoiced in the heavy lumbering conveyance as a luxury, sparing the maiden’s fatigue, and she was commencing some inquiries into the indisposition which had procured this holiday, when Cicely broke in, “O mother, nothing aileth me.  It is not for that cause—­but oh! mother, I am to go to see Queen Elizabeth, and strive with her for her—­for my mother’s life and freedom.”

“Thou! poor little maid.  Doth thy father—­what am I saying?  Doth my husband know?”

“Oh yes.  He will take me.  He saith it is my duty.”

“Then it must be well,” said Susan in an altered voice on hearing this.  “From whom came the proposal?”

“I made it,” said Cicely in a low, feeble voice on the verge of tears.  “Oh, dear mother, thou wilt not tell any one how faint of heart I am?  I did mean it in sooth, but I never guessed how dreadful it would grow now I am pledged to it.”

“Thou art pledged, then, and canst not falter?”

“Never,” said Cicely; “I would not that any should know it, not even my father; but mother, mother, I could not help telling you.  You will let no one guess?  I know it is unworthy, but—­”

“Not unworthy to fear, my poor child, so long as thou dost not waver.”

“It is, it is unworthy of my lineage.  My mother queen would say so,” cried Cis, drawing herself up.

“Giving way would be unworthy,” said Susan, “but turn thou to thy God, my child, and He will give thee strength to carry through whatever is the duty of a faithful daughter towards this poor lady; and my husband, thou sayest, holds that so it is?”

“Yea, madam; he craved license to take me home, since I have truly often been ailing since those dreadful days at Tixall, and he hath promised to go to London with me.”

“And is this to be done in thine own true name?” asked Susan, trembling somewhat at the risk to her husband, as well as to the maiden.