“Nay, madam, that cannot be yet,” said Loveday; “the watermen are gone to rest and dine, and we must wait for the tide to shoot the bridge.”

“Then pray let us go out and walk in Greenwich Park,” exclaimed Aurelia, longing to escape from this den.

“The sweet young lady will take something in the meantime?” said Mrs. Darke.

“I thank you, I have breakfasted,” said Aurelia.

“My Lady intended us to eat here,” said Loveday in an undertone to her young lady, as their hostess bustled out.  “She will make it good to Mrs. Darke.”

“I had rather go to the inn—­I have money—­or sit in the park,” she added as Loveday looked as if going to the inn were an improper proposal.  “Could we not buy a loaf and eat in the park?  I should like it so much better.”

“One cup of coffee,” said Mrs. Darke, entering; “the excellent Mocha that I get from the Turkey captains.”

She set down on a small table a wonderful cup of Eastern porcelain, and some little sugared cakes, and Aurelia, not to be utterly ungracious, tasted one, and began on the coffee, which was so hot that it had to be taken slowly.  As she sipped a soothing drowsiness came over her, which at first was accounted for by the warm room after her row on the river; but it gained upon her, and instead of setting out for her walk she fell sound asleep in the corner of the couch.

“It has worked.  It is well,” said Mrs. Darke, lifting the girl’s feet on the couch, and producing a large pair of scissors.

Loveday could not repress a little shriek.

“Hush!” as the woman untied the black silk hood, drew it gently off, and then undid the ribbon that confined the victim’s abundant tresses.  “Bah! it will be grown by the time she arrives, and if not so long as present, what will they know of it?  It will be the more agreeable surprise!  Here, put yonder cloth under her head while I hold it up.”

“I cannot,” sobbed Loveday.  “This is too much.  I never would have entered my Lady’s service if I had known I was to be set to such as this.”

“Come, come, Grace Loveday, I know too much of you for you to come the Presician over me.”

“Such a sweet innocent!  So tender-hearted and civil too.”

“Bless you, woman, you don’t know what’s good for her!  She will be a very queen over the black slaves on the Indies.  Captain Karen will tell you how the wenches thank him for having brought ’em out.  They could never do any good here, you know, poor lasses; but out there, where white women are scarce, they are ready to worship the very ground they tread upon.”

“I tell you she ain’t one of that sort.  She is a young lady of birth, a cousin of my Lady’s own, as innocent as a babe, and there are two gentlemen, if not three, a dying for her.”

“I lay you anything not one of ’em is worth old Mr. Van Draagen, who turns his thousands every month.  ‘Send me out a lady lass,’ says he, ‘one that will do me credit with the governor’s lady.’  Why she will have an estate as big as from here to Dover, and slaves to wait on her, so as she need never stoop to pick up her glove.  He has been married twice before, and his last used to send orders for the best brocades in London.  He stuck at no expense.  The Queen has not finer gowns!”