LADIES-IN-WAITING
some girls of fifteen or sixteen, too, scattered about, a few of them accompanied by prim governesses.
Appleton heard the entrance of some one from the anteroom beyond the grand piano, then a few chords, struck by hands that loved the ivory keys and evoked a reciprocal tenderness every time they touched them; then:
“Near Woodstock Town in Oxfordshire
As I walked forth to take the air,
To view the fields and meadows round,
Methought I heard a mournful sound.”
So the chronicle ran on until the crisis came:
“The lady round the meadow ran,
And gathered flowers as they sprang.
Of every sort she there did pull
Until she got her apron full.”
The history of the distracted lady’s unhappy passion persevered:
“The green ground served her as a bed,
The flowers a pillow for her head.
She laid her down and nothing spoke.
Alas! for love her heart was broke.”
Appleton was at first too enchanted with the mischievous yet sympathetic rendition of
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