“In the main garden, master. To the right.”

Francis looked in the direction indicated and soon descried the form of a woman seated in a large rolling chair which was wheeled by an attendant. Along the walks of the garden they went pausing ever and anon to pluck some flower or the cherries which were ripening in the sun. For a moment only Francis gazed and then, before Will had time to say her nay, she leaped off from the wagon and bounded swiftly in the direction of the garden.

“Uds!” growled Will his mouth agape with astonishment. “Methought there was more to ’t than appeared,” and he went on to the kitchens.

Meantime Francis, trampling over flowers and vegetables in her haste, reached the side of Mary, and thrust into her hand the package of letters. Mary’s quick wit grasped the situation instantly. Concealing the papers about her she drew back from the seeming carter, crying in a loud voice for she saw one of the guards approaching:

“I wished to see thee,” murmured Francis rising. “Forgive me. I wished——”

“There!” said Mary. “’Tis no matter. Barbara,” to her companion, “hast thou the purse? Give the lad a groat. Marry! thou art all alike. Ye wish bounty whether ye deserve it or not. Go, and trouble me no more.”

She turned as she spoke and without another glance at the girl passed back to the house. Francis stood looking at the coin for a moment undecided what to do for she saw that Will’s cart was nowhere in sight.

Without a word in reply, glad to have the matter end so, Francis followed him meekly as he led her to the kitchen doors where Will and other carters were busy unloading their wagons.

“With which of you came this fellow?” demanded the guard.

“With me, master,” spoke Will sullenly.

“See that he accompanies thee no more. ’Tis a mischievous wight and like to get into trouble. Quick with thy load. I wish to see thy cart safely beyond the gates.”

“Will,” said Francis when they were once more outside the gates, “art angry with me?”

“Ay! ’twere an ill turn that thou did serve me,” growled Will. “’Twere an ill turn, master.”

“Forgive me, and you shall have this groat that the queen gave me,” and Francis handed him the coin. “My lord, I know, will give me more to give thee.”

“Well, mayhap it be all right,” said Will somewhat mollified, “but you go no more, young master.”

“No more, I’ll be bound, master,” growled Will. “There was more in’t than seeing and speaking, I’ll warrant. But I ken none of it. Here we are at Stafford, master.”

“I thank you, Will, for your courtesy,” said Francis sweetly as she left him.

Lord Stafford was awaiting her return anxiously. He folded her close to his breast as she entered his chamber, saying earnestly:

“Thank Heaven, my daughter, that thou hast returned safely to me. Not for all the queens in the world would I have thee adventure such a thing again.”

“Why, ’twas naught,” laughed the girl. “Mary hath the letters now. ’Twas not hard to give them after all.” She recounted the whole affair.

“Glad am I to have pleased thee,” returned Francis. “There is naught that I would not undertake for thee, my father.”

“I believe it, Francis.”

The next morning early they set forth on the return journey. Lord Stafford seemed to have thrown aside the weight of misgiving that had oppressed him on his way thither, and was full of the gayest spirits. With laughter and story did he beguile the way, and once as he jestingly spoke of her attire, he said laughingly,

“Listen, Francis, and I will tell thee of another such an one. Hast thou ever heard how the serving man became a queen?”

“The serving man a queen?” cried the girl. “Why how could that be, father?”

“Listen, and you shall hear.” In a rich full voice he trolled the following ballad:

Francis laughed merrily when he finished.

“Poor Williame! but it ended well after all. Well, my days for man’s attire will soon be o’er.”

“’Tis to be hoped so,” answered her father. “Though the dress well becomes thee.”

At length, though they had returned by easier stages than they had performed the journey to Stafford, Lyndhurst was reached, and soon the turrets of Stafford Hall became visible.

“Marry, there stands my lady wife! Look, she sees us.”

With a cry of joy the lady ran to greet them.

“Ye are safe,” she cried embracing them. “Ah, but it hath been long, long since ye left. Methought something had befallen you.”

“No; my sweet wife. Weary we may be with the journey, and ready for the good cheer which we know awaits us, but well otherwise. How now, sweet chuck? Thou art pale, and even though thou hast us safe with thee, yet doth thy lip still quiver, and thy form tremble. What is it? Speak, madam, I beseech thee.”

“Elizabeth here?” cried Lord Stafford in astonishment. “Art sure?”

“Sure, my lord. What doth it portend? Is there hidden menace in the fact? Doth she suspect, think you, that Ballard hath been here? My lord, what can it mean?”

“Madam, I know not. We are her subjects. If Her Majesty chooses to visit us we can but receive her. But look not so pale. ’Tis but a matter of a few days’ entertainment, and surely we would do ill to be churlish of them. It is not the first time that royalty hath honored Stafford. Right well do I remember that Henry, Elizabeth’s bluff old father, favored us with a visit. With his own hand he brought down many a fat buck in yon forest park. Right well pleased was my father with that visit.”

“True, my lord; but he had favor with Henry, and had naught to fear.”

“Neither am I, good my father,” spoke Francis quickly. With the natural instinct of youth she delighted at the prospect of the pleasures in store. “Glad will I be to see the queen even though she be old and not so beautiful as Mary.”

“Beshrew me, girl! let no such words pass thy lips,” cried her father in consternation. “’Twere treason, forsooth.”

“Have no fear. I will speak naught of that order to any save thee and my lady mother. Discreet am I and full of matter, but nothing will I disclose.”

“Thou hast need to be discreet,” replied her mother. “Be not malapert and froward, child.”

“Said the messenger when she was coming?” now asked the nobleman.

“On the third day from this, my lord.”

The days that followed were full of bustle and activity. The officers of the household scoured the country far and near to secure provisions and delicacies sufficient for the queen and her retinue. Game, droves of bullocks, sheep, hogs and great hampers of groceries filled the larders to overflowing. Near and remote neighbors and kinsmen embraced the opportunity to send contributions. No man knew when his own time might come and sympathized accordingly. The queen was not tolerant of any but a royal reception, and a visit, while an honor, was not always an unmixed blessing; as many an impoverished nobleman could testify.

“We must have a play, my lord,” he said to Lord Stafford who was for the moment idle. “Her Majesty doth take delight in a play. This to be preceded by an address in Latin. Latin, my lord, because the queen is learned, and deference should be paid to her knowledge. The welcome to be spoken by a boy.”

“Have what thou wilt, Greville, so that it will please the queen,” returned the nobleman. “I had word from my Lord of Leicester this morning that his mummers accompanied Elizabeth in her progress. They will give the play with more of satisfaction, I trow, than any of the strolling players who have come hither. The address of welcome could be managed, but what boy couldst thou get to deliver it? Boys there be in plenty, but boys with Latinity——” and he shrugged his shoulders.

“Had your lordship only a son,” sighed Greville regretfully, “it would be right fitting for him to give the speech. I myself would write it. ’Twould only need to be conned well. Ah, would that thou hadst a son!”

“Nay;” and the old man shook his head positively. “’Twill not do, Francis. The Queen’s Majesty would relish it more if ’twere spoken by a lad. Her heart inclineth to them. A pretty lad, for she loves beauty. Marry! ’tis pity thou art a girl!”

“Father,” Francis spoke quickly, a roguish light coming into her eyes, “I could put on the page’s dress again, and who would be the wiser? Not the queen, I trow, for she doth not know whether or no thou hast a son.”

“If it might be,” said Greville eagerly. “The girl is brighter than most lads, and could quickly con the speech. What say you, my lord?”

“Let the child have her way in this, my lord,” spoke Lady Stafford joining them. “Did she not don the garb to please thee? Now that it be for her pleasure deny her not, I entreat.”

“Now there is necessity also,” broke in Francis. “Shall the queen go without her welcome for the want of a boy? I trow not, when Francis Stafford makes so good an one. Fear not, my father. I have become so accustomed to the dress that each day do I don it. And ’tis but sport.”

“Have thine own way,” said Lord Stafford resignedly. “Do but honor the queen, and I will not inquire too closely concerning the manner.”

Pleased at receiving the permission, Francis applied herself to memorizing the speech prepared by the tutor while the other preparations went on royally. Elizabeth was to arrive in the afternoon, and on the morning of that day her master of horse, the Earl of Leicester, with his stepson, the Earl of Essex, came to see that everything was in readiness. Then in company with Lord Stafford they went forth to escort the queen to the Hall.

“Courage,” whispered Greville who stood near her. “Courage, girl. Remember who thou art, and whom thou art to welcome. Do thy father credit, else I will repent me of having intrusted so important a duty to thee.”

“I will, good cousin,” returned Francis her spirit rising at his words. “Not even the presence of the queen shall make me forget what is due my father. But hark!”

At the foot of the terrace she alighted from her chariot, and, escorted by Lord Stafford, ascended the steps and approached the place where Francis stood. The girl gazed at her earnestly, mentally contrasting her with Mary of Scotland.

Elizabeth listened smilingly, and as the girl concluded she passed her hand over her auburn curls saying affably:

“Well done, thou pretty lad! I like well the spirit as well as the delivery of it. Thy Latinity holds much to be commended. And what may be thy name?”

“Francis Stafford, may it please Your Grace.”

“It does please me. Francis? Ah, well do I ken that was the name of thy father, my lord,” and she turned to Lord Stafford.

“You speak aright, Your Highness,” answered he.

“Thou shalt come to me anon, thou pretty lad, for I would speak with thee further,” said the queen as she moved away. “Hast thou other children, my lord?”

“This is mine only one,” replied Lord Stafford.

“And was the welcome of your composing?” queried she.

“Assuredly. Where is he? Ah, Greville,” as the tutor overwhelmed with rapture at her notice, threw himself on his knees before her, and seizing the hand which she graciously extended to him, covered it with kisses. “Art well?”

“Ah, madam, madam,” murmured the old man, “can you ask that when it hath been so long since I have been in your presence? As well expect the flower to flourish without the rays of the sun.”

“There, flatterer,” said the queen tapping him lightly on the shoulder to Francis’ amazement for she expected her to take no notice of such adulation. “Thou must come to the court oftener, Greville.”

Greville arose as she passed on, his face aglow with gratification.

“Child, is she not the most gracious, the most lovely of sovereigns?” he whispered to Francis.

“Gracious, I grant thee, cousin; but lovely, no. My mother is fairer by far than she.”

“God bless Elizabeth,” echoed Greville fervently, but Francis, with a haughty look at the speaker, turned upon her heel, and entered the hall.

The queen at length reached the great hall of the castle, gorgeously hung with tapestries for her reception, and resounding to the strains of soft and delicious music. At the upper end of the chamber was a throne and beside it a door which opened into a suite of apartments for the queen whenever it should be her pleasure to be private. The hall was thronged with spectators, for a masque was to be given, and menials as well as courtiers were interested in the pageant.

Francis mingled with the crowd purposing to retire very soon to her bower to don habit more befitting her sex, but enjoying for the nonce the freedom which her garb gave her. Presently she felt her cloak twitched as some one said:

“Where is your sister, sir? I see her not among those who attend the queen.”

The boy, for it was the lad who had shot the deer in the chase, gave vent to a low laugh.

“I came to see the queen. Why should I not? I am her leal and true subject, which is more than thou canst say even if thou didst rattle off her welcome so glibly in Latin. As for my dress, it is my own. Why should I not wear it, Master Stafford?”

“I am as true a subject to the queen as thou art,” retorted Francis. “Why art thou here? Thou shouldst be in durance for the deer which thou didst shoot in the forest,” and a sneer curled her lips.

“So she told you of it,” exclaimed the lad.

“She? Whom mean you?” queried Francis in bewilderment.

Francis laughed outright as the lad’s mistake dawned upon her, and a merry twinkle came into her eyes.

“My sister is occupied,” she answered mischievously. “Marry! it were well for thee that it was she with whom thou didst dispute over the deer. But thou hast been punished enough, else I would not let thee leave this hall before thou wouldst feel the weight of my whip.”

“Beshrew me, I like not thy brag,” cried the other angrily. “Know, Master Stafford, that I was not punished. So soon as the keepers found who and what I was they made apology for treating me in such an unmannerly fashion, and brought me the horns of the deer as trophy of my skill. They now repose in mine own abode.”

“Brought thee the horns in trophy of thy skill?” repeated the girl in wrathful incredulity. “Brought them to thee, forsooth! Why, minion, thou didst not kill the deer. I slew it myself.”

“Francis,” Greville came up opportunely at this moment, “thou art forgetting thyself. Thy mother wishes thy presence. Why doth thou show choler toward this lad? Why, it is the lad who shot the deer!”

“You too, Greville,” exclaimed Francis bitterly. “I think the sight of Elizabeth hath addled thy wits. As for you, young sir, ’tis well that my duty to my mother calls me hence else thou shouldst not get off so easily.”

“At another time then,” replied the boy, “thou wilt find me at thy service. We can settle our difference then.”

“Now heaven forfend!” ejaculated the tutor urging Francis away. “This comes of donning male habit. I will report the matter to my lady, Francis. She will see to’t that thou dost conduct thyself in more seemly manner. ’Twould but amuse my lord.”

“Methought he spoke not without courage,” observed Greville. “I should judge by his dress that his rank was equal to thine.”

“His dress, forsooth! What doth hinder any hind from appearing in rich attire?”

“The law of the queen. It regulates dress according to rank, and works with severity against those who dare transgress it,” returned Greville. “There stands thy lady mother. I entreat thee, girl, abide close by her side during the queen’s visit else thy sharp tongue may work mischief for all of us. My lady, here is the child.”

Lady Stafford who stood near the queen and her ladies looked reproachfully at her daughter.

“Hast thou not changed thy garb yet, my child?” she asked. “It behooves thee to do so at once for it savors of disrespect to the queen not to appear in other array.”

Much embarrassed Lady Stafford strove to stammer forth the truth but the queen waved her hand peremptorily.

“No more, madam. It is our wish that he attend us as he is. He shall don other garb later.”

There was nothing left for Francis to do but to follow her as she retired with the ladies to the apartments which had been allotted to her use. For the first time the girl was painfully conscious of the incongruousness of her attire. That the queen might ask her attendance had not occurred to any of them, and had it done so the affair would have seemed easy of explanation, but it had been found exceedingly difficult to get a hearing. She resolved, however, that should occasion present she would tell all hoping that the queen would pardon the deception, if such it might be called.

For some time Elizabeth conversed with her maids, taking no notice of Francis, but at length she said abruptly,

“Come here, my lad.”

Francis approached diffidently, and, unused to the customs of the court, remained standing.

“Kneel, boy,” whispered one of the ladies whom she afterward learned was the Duchess of Rutland. “Where are thy manners?”

“Thy pardon,” murmured Francis in consternation sinking upon one knee. “I knew not. I——”

“There! ’tis naught.” Elizabeth extended her hand graciously, and the girl retained presence of mind enough to kiss it respectfully. “My good Rutland, expect not court manners in the midst of a forest. The youth means well enough, I dare say, and I liked well his words of welcome. ’Tis a pretty lad! His tresses match our own for brightness.”

Francis looked up somewhat indignantly. Her locks were of red in truth, but they were glossy and lustrous becoming golden in the sun, while Elizabeth’s were a dull red and false.

“Foolish girl!” chided Elizabeth though a smile played about her lips for this great queen did not object to the most fulsome flattery. “To speak such words to me who am an old woman. Now the lad, we dare affirm, doth not think me so fair as his mother who is, in truth, a beautiful woman. Speak, boy!” She smiled at Francis as she spoke and rearranged her draperies coquettishly.

Francis’ young nature was filled with scorn for the vanity of the woman before her, queen though she was. Her mother’s face arose before her with its delicate complexion guiltless of the powder and the rouge affected by the ladies of the court. Her tresses were streaked somewhat with gray, but they were still her own. Her eyes were as blue as periwinkles and full of tenderness and love. The girl’s eyes swept the painted face above her, and her heart grew hot within her breast at the queen’s question. Amazed at her own audacity she arose and said boldly:

For an instant there was dead silence in the chamber. An expression of fury crossed the queen’s face. She half rose from her couch, and then sank back upon it.

“We were near forgetting, Sir Malapert, that thou hadst not had benefit of court life. Thy manners must be mended ere thou dost come into our presence again. Go! you weary me. Come near me no more. And he is a pupil of Greville’s!” Francis heard her exclaim as she hurried away. “My life, the boy is duller than he looks!”

Full of consternation at what she had done, angry and resentful also, Francis sought her parents to relate the incident to them.

“Oh, child, child,” moaned the mother. “What hast thou done! What hast thou done!”

“My mother, was it not the truth? Thou art fairer; a thousand times fairer than she. She is an ugly old woman——”

“She said that I was to come near her no more while she remained. I am sorry if I did wrong in speaking so, but still it is the truth. My mother is the fairer.”

“Hush, hush,” whispered the lady drawing her close. “’Tis treason, child. What doth it matter to us whether or no I am the fairer. It bodes us ill to say so. Oh, child, I am afeared.”

“Let us ask Greville to aid us,” said Lord Stafford. “Mayhap he can suggest a remedy, for well doth he ken Elizabeth’s humors.”