"
Mrs. Mellicent tried to frown. "Foolish girl," said she, "you should
have kept the essence-box at least, as an heirloom. It was a present
from Henry the Seventh's Queen to your great grandmother's aunt, who was
her maid of honour. There was the union of the two roses wrought upon
it; the King, standing with a red rose in his hand, and the Queen with a
white, and a Bishop between them, and a large dove at the top, with an
olive-branch in his mouth, so beautiful that it fell in festoons all
down the side. Well, I am thankful that I took off the pattern in
chain-stitch. It will shew what good blood you spring from when people
come to be again valued for their families." Mrs. Mellicent retired to
her chamber, secretly pleased with the dispositions of her young charge,
and inclined to believe that a parcel of beggarly republicans could not
long domineer over such generous and aspiring minds.
CHAP. VII.
O War, thou son of Hell,
Throw, in the frozen bosoms of our part,
Hot coals of vengeance, let no soldier fly;
He that is truly dedicate to war
Hath no self-love.
Pages:
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157