I played at hot cockles, last night, at my Lord of Leicester's. The Lord of Surrey was there, a very elegant young man, who sung a song of his own composition, on the "Lord of Kildare's Daughter." It was much approved, and my brother whispered me that the fair Geraldine, for so my Lord of Surrey calls his sweetheart, is the finest woman of the age. I should be glad to see her, for I hear she is good as she is beautiful.
Pray take care of the poultry during my absence. Poor things! I always fed them myself; and if Margery has knitted me the crimson worsted mittens, I should be glad if they were sent up the first opportunity.
Adieu, dear Mary. I am just going to mass, and you shall speedily have the prayers, as you have now the kindest love of your own
Anne Boleyn.
"Up before six, and think it late to go to bed at ten! What a countrified thing Anne must have been. Bacon and ale for breakfast, and dinner at twelve; how very queer to live so!" cried Fanny. "Lord Surrey and Lord Leicester sound fine, but hot cockles, and red mittens, and shoes for three shillings, are horrid."
"I like it," said Polly, thoughtfully, "and I'm glad poor Anne had a little fun before her troubles began. May I copy that letter some time, grandma?"
"Yes, dear, and welcome. Now, here's the other, by a modern girl on her first visit to London. This will suit you better. Fan," and grandma read what a
