Old, sad, and sour, Audrey found the old lady's maundering lamentations over the good times of King James a sad contrast to her grandfather's discussions of public matters, or her father's learned conversation. Morning prayers in the chilly little church, an occasional airing in the shabby coach, with its moth-eaten cushions and patched harness, were the only varieties in Audrey's life.  She became better skilled in the making of pickles and preserves than ever she could have been in the masculine household at Hunstanton, where the old servants would have broken their hearts if their little mistress had ever set her dainty finger to anything rougher than gathering rose-leaves and lavender to scent the best parlour.  But the dull external life had no real effect on Audrey's spirits; she bore her great-aunt's peevishness and the monotony of her days with cheerful equanimity, for this all was but a parenthesis; soon she would join the beloved father whom she tended and petted and scolded and revered, and they would begin a new life in a wonderful country, where she should see live savages with painted faces and feather head-dresses, and valiant soldiers and frontiersmen, whose adventures were as romantic as those of Robin Hood, and saintly ministers who had fled from persecution, like the people in Fox's Book of Martyrs; her brilliant fancy painted the Western land with all the hues of the sunset.  Full of healthful energy, it was a relief to her to help the solitary maid in her household work; that was the least dull part of her new life; and, in the kitchen, the Queen of Hunstanton could still rule imperiously over the old cowman, and make the dairywoman tremble before her royal displeasure.