_Nov. 8th._
AMICE CROCKER, my dearest friend, is dead and buried—buried in a
dishonored grave, by the poor lady who was prisoner in the Queen's room
so long. She died a heretic, they say, without the sacraments, and they
tell me it is sinful in me to love her longer. But I will love her,
to the latest day of my life. I don't believe she is lost either, and
nothing shall ever make me think so. Oh, that last night when I sat by
her side, and she told me all!
Well, she is gone, and naught can hurt her more. I think Mother
Gertrude will soon follow, for she seems utterly broken down. She might
well say that no good would come of the Queen's visit. And if Amice
should be right, after all, and we wrong! I must not, I dare not think
of it! Alack and woe is me! I would I had died in the sickness, or ever
I had lived to see this sorrowful day!
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