It ran thus:-- "_One, Ludar, an Irishman, who carried certain Letters abroad.

He lieth in ye Tower of London, waiting Her Majesty's pleasure_." The summer passed, and each week the maiden's cheek grew paler.

She had said little when Jeannette showed her the name on the proof which I had kept.

But she quietly took the paper and hid it in her bosom, and for a day kept herself to her chamber.
After that she rarely mentioned Ludar's name, and when we spoke of him to her, she always changed the talk to something else.

Once or twice, in the late summer evenings, I took her and Jeannette to row on the river.