It was a morning towards the end of May (some little time after
Edward's gracious reception of the London deputies), when Nicholas
Alwyn, accompanied by two servitors armed to the teeth,--for they
carried with them goods of much value, and even in the broad daylight
and amidst the most frequented parts of the city, men still confided
little in the security of the law,--arrived at the Tower, and was
conducted to the presence of the queen.

Elizabeth and her mother were engaged in animated but whispered
conversation when the goldsmith entered; and there was an unusual
gayety in the queen's countenance as she turned to Alwyn and bade him
show her his newest gauds.

While with a curiosity and eagerness that seemed almost childlike
Elizabeth turned over rings, chains, and brooches, scarcely listening
to Alwyn's comments on the lustre of the gems or the quaintness of the
fashion, the duchess disappeared for a moment, and returned with the
Princess Margaret.

This young princess had much of the majestic beauty of her royal
brother; but, instead of the frank, careless expression so fascinating
in Edward, there was, in her full and curved lip and bright large eye,
something at once of haughtiness and passion, which spoke a decision
and vivacity of character beyond her years.

"Choose for thyself, sweetheart and daughter mine," said the duchess,
affectionately placing her hand on Margaret's luxuriant hair, "and let
the noble visitor we await confess that our rose of England outblooms
the world."