Celia walked ahead with Mrs. Benedict, who keeps turning up at the
most unexpected moments. She's going to build a Gothicky memorial

chapel somewhere. I don't know for whom, unless it's for Benedict
Arnold. I don't like her in the least, but four is certainly a more

comfortable number than three. I scarcely ever have a moment alone
with Mr. Copley; for go where I will and do what I please, aunt

Celia has the most perfect confidence in my indiscretion, so she is
always en evidence.

Just as we were turning into the quiet little street where we are
lodging I said, "Oh dear, I wish that I knew something about

architecture!"
"If you don't know anything about it, you are certainly responsible

for a good deal of it," said Mr. Copley.
"I? How do you mean?" I asked quite innocently" target="_blank" title="ad.天真地，单纯地">innocently, because I couldn't

see how he could twist such a remark as that into anything like
sentiment.

"I have never built so many castles in my life as since I've known
you, Miss Schuyler," he said.

"Oh," I answered as lightly as I could, "air-castles don't count."
"The building of air-castles is an innocentamusement enough, I

suppose," he said, "but I'm committing the folly of living in mine.
I" -

Then I was frightened. When, all at once, you find you have
something precious you only dimly suspected was to be yours, you

almost wish it hadn't come so soon. But just at that moment Mrs.
Benedict called to us, and came tramping back from the gate, and

hooked her supercilious, patronizing arm in Mr. Copley's, and asked
him into the sitting-room to talk over the "lady chapel" in her new

memorial church. Then aunt Celia told me they would excuse me, as I
had had a wearisome day; and there was nothing for me to do but to

go to bed, like a snubbed child, and wonder if I should ever know
the end of that sentence. And I listened at the head of the stairs,

shivering, but all that I could hear was that Mrs. Benedict asked
Mr. Copley to be her own architect. Her architect indeed! That

woman ought not to be at large!
DURHAM, July 15

At Farmer Hendry's.
We left York this morning, and arrived here about eleven o'clock.

It seems there is some sort of an election going on in the town, and
there was not a single fly at the station. Mr. Copley walked about

in every direction, but neither horse nor vehicle was to be had for
love nor money. At last we started to walk to the village, Mr.

Copley so laden with our hand-luggage that he resembled a pack-mule.
We made a tour of the inns, but not a single room was to be had, not

for that night nor for three days ahead, on account of that same
election.

"Hadn't we better go on to Edinburgh, aunt Celia?" I asked.
"Edinburgh? Never!" she replied. "Do you suppose that I would

voluntarily spend a Sunday in those bare Presbyterian churches until
the memory of these past ideal weeks has faded a little from my

memory? What, leave out Durham and spoil the set?" (She spoke of
the cathedrals as if they were souvenir spoons.) "I intended to

stay here for a week or more, and write up a record of our entire
trip from Winchester while the impressions were fresh in my mind."

"And I had intended doing the same thing," said Mr. Copley. "That
is, I hoped to finish off my previous sketches, which are in a

frightful state of incompletion, and spend a good deal of time on
the interior of this cathedral, which is unusually beautiful." (At

this juncture aunt Celia disappeared for a moment to ask the barmaid
if, in her opinion, the constantconsumption of malt liquors

prevents a more dangerous indulgence in brandy and whiskey. She is
gathering statistics, but as the barmaids can never collect their

thoughts while they are drawing ale, aunt Celia proceeds slowly.)
"For my part," said I, with mock humility, "I am a docile person who

never has any intentions of her own, but who yields herself sweetly
to the intentions of other people in her immediate vicinity."

"Are you?" asked Mr. Copley, taking out his pencil.
"Yes, I said so. What are you doing?"

"Merely taking note of your statement, that's all.--Now, Miss Van
Tyck, I have a plan to propose. I was here last summer with a

couple of Harvard men, and we lodged at a farmhouse half a mile from
the cathedral. If you will step into the coffee-room of the

Shoulder of Mutton and Cauliflower for an hour, I'll walk up to
Farmer Hendry's and see if they will take us in. I think we might

be fairly comfortable."
"Can aunt Celia have Apollinaris and black coffee after her morning

bath?" I asked.
"I hope, Katharine," said aunt Celia majestically,--"I hope that I

can accommodate myself to circumstances. If Mr. Copley can secure
lodgings for us, I shall be more than grateful."

So here we are, all lodging together in an ideal English farmhouse.
There is a thatched roof on one of the old buildings, and the dairy

house is covered with ivy, and Farmer Hendry's wife makes a real
English courtesy, and there are herds of beautiful sleek Durham

cattle, and the butter and cream and eggs and mutton are delicious;
and I never, never want to go home any more. I want to live here

forever, and wave the American flag on Washington's birthday.
I am so happy that I feel as if something were going to spoil it

all. Twenty years old to-day! I wish mamma were alive to wish me
many happy returns.

Memoranda: Casual remark for breakfast table or perhaps for
luncheon,--it is a trifle heavy for breakfast: "Since the sixteenth

century and despite the work of Inigo Jones and the great Wren (not
Jenny Wren--Christopher), architecture has had, in England

especially, no legitimate development."
HE

DURHAM, July 19
O child of fortune, thy name is J. Q. Copley! How did it happen to

be election time? Why did the inns chance to be full? How did aunt
Celia relax sufficiently to allow me to find her a lodging? Why did

she fall in love with the lodging when found? I do not know. I
only know Fate smiles; that Kitty and I eat our morning bacon and

eggs together; that I carve Kitty's cold beef and pour Kitty's
sparkling ale at luncheon; that I go to vespers with Kitty, and dine

with Kitty, and walk in the gloaming with Kitty--and aunt Celia.
And after a day of heaven like this, like Lorna Doone's lover,--ay,

and like every other lover, I suppose,--I go to sleep, and the roof
above me swarms with angels, having Kitty under it!

We were coming home from afternoon service, Kitty and I. (I am
anticipating for she was "Miss Schuyler" then, but never mind.) We

were walking through the fields, while Mrs. Benedict and aunt Celia
were driving. As we came across a corner of the bit of meadow land

that joins the stable and the garden, we heard a muffled roar, and
as we looked round we saw a creature with tossing horns and waving

tail making for us, head down, eyes flashing. Kitty gave a shriek.
We chanced to be near a pair of low bars. I hadn't been a college

athlete for nothing. I swung Kitty over the bars, and jumped after
her. But she, not knowing in her fright where she was nor what she

was doing; supposing, also, that the mad creature, like the villain
in the play, would "still pursue her," flung herself bodily into my

arms, crying, "Jack! Jack! Save me!"
"It was the first time she had called me Jack," and I needed no

second invitation. I proceeded to save her,--in the usual way, by
holding her to my heart and kissing her lovely hair reassuringly, as

I murmured: "You are safe, my darling; not a hair of your precious