78 THE LADY PILGRI3I. 
THE LADY PILGRIM. 
It was early morning in one of the old palaces 
in England. The night had been a tempestuous 
one, but the heavy clouds were rolling away before 
the dawn, and the gray mist was creeping slowly 
up the sides of the mountains, and hanging in 
dense wreaths over the little streamlet which 
watered the valley below. Large drops of rain hung 
pendent upon the foliage of the gnarled old oaks 
which bordered the gravelled walks in the parks, 
while a flood of perfume came from the half- 
opened buds of the sweet young wildflowers. 
The proud Earl of Lincoln sat alone in his rich 
but antique reception room. His attitude was one 
of intense thought, for both arms rested heavily 
upon the marble table before him, and his head was 
dropped upon them, as if he were entirely absorbed 
in his musings. The strong beams of light, now 
fast thickening, streamed in through the high 
stained windows, and tinged with a silvery bright- 
ness the gray locks which wandered over his venera- 
ble forehead. A loose dressing gown, which his 
faithful old servitor, Dudley, had thrown around 
him, was carelessly looped over his chest, and 
swept the heavy oak floor upon either side of his 
chair, while his feet were thrust into a pair of 
delicately embroidered slippers, wrought by his 
idolized daughter, the Lady Arabella. 
