Tall flowers upon the Medway’s brim next took their eye, and they gathered pink and white and purple sheaves; then, limed by the mere joy of work, caught up and plied the rakes of the haymakers.  The meadows became lists, their sudden employment a joust-at-arms, and some slender youth crowned the swiftest workwoman with field flowers, withering in the nearest swathe.  All wove garlands, then made for the shade of the trees and shared a low basket of golden apples.  One had a lute and another sang a love ditty with ethereal passion.  They were in Arcadia,—­silken shepherdesses, slim princes in disguise,—­and they breathed the sweetness, the innocent yet lofty grace which was the country’s natal air.

“Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother,” kept much, in her gentle, filial sorrow, to her great chamber above the gardens, where she wrote and studied, and to her closet, where before an eastern window was set the low chair beside which she kneeled in prayer for her living and her dead.  She prayed much alone, but once a day, when the morn was young, she sent for one who was named her gentlewoman indeed, but to whom all her train gave deference, knowing of the love between this lady and their mistress.  The lady came, beautiful, patient, with lips that smiled on life, and wonderful dark eyes in which the smile was drowned.  The Countess took her morning kiss and the fair coolness of her pressed cheek, then praised the flowers in her hands, all jewelled with the dew—­a lovely posy to be set amongst the Countess’s little library of pious works.  Then on this as on other days the two fair women read together, their soft voices making tremulous music of the stately Latin.  The reading done, they kneeled side by side, dark hair against light, praying silently, each her own prayers.  It was a morning rite, poignantly dear to them both; it began and helped upon its way the livelong lingering day.  They arose and kissed, and presently the Countess spoke of letters which she must write.  “Then,” said the other, “I will go sit by the fountain until you wish for me.”

“The fountain!” answered Mary Sidney.  “Ah, Damaris!  I would that thou mightst forget the fountain.  I would that other blooms than red roses were planted there!”

“That would not I!” the other answered.  “I love the fountain.  And once a red rose meant to me—­Paradise!”

“Then go thy ways, and gather thy roses,” said the Countess fondly.  “I would give thee Heaven an I could—­so that thou stayed upon earth with thy fairing!”

The Countess sat herself down to write to Philip Sidney, not knowing that he was so near the frontier whence no living messenger, no warm and loving cry could ever draw him back.  Damaris, a book in her hand, passed through the silent, darkened house out to the sunlit lawns.  Her skirt swept the enamelled turf; she touched the tallest flowers as she passed, and they bloomed no worse for that light caress.  Poetry was in her every motion, and she was too beautiful