stained-glass window. Great Jove! She had a most curious effect on
me, that girl! I can't explain it,--very curious, altogether new,

and rather pleasant! When one of the choir boys sang, "Oh for the
wings of a dove!" a tear rolled out of one of her lovely eyes and

down her smooth brown cheek. I would have given a large portion of
my modestmonthlyincome for the felicity of wiping away that

teardrop with one of my new handkerchiefs, marked with a tremendous
"C" by my pretty sister.

An hour or two later they appeared again,--the dragon, who answers
to the name of "aunt Celia," and the "nut-brown mayde," who comes

when you call her "Katharine." I was sketching a ruined arch. The
dragon dropped her unmistakably Boston bag. I expected to see

encyclopaedias and Russian tracts fall from it, but was
disappointed. The nut-brown mayde (who has been brought up rigidly)

hastened to pick up the bag, for fear that I should serve her by
doing it. She was punished by turning it inside out, and I was

rewarded by helping her pick up the articles, which were many and
ill assorted. My little romance received the first blow when I

found that she reads the Duchess novels. I think, however, she has
the grace to be ashamed of it, for she blushed scarlet when I handed

her "A Modern Circe." I could have told her that such a blush on
such a cheek would atone for reading Mrs. Southworth, but I

refrained. After she had gone I discovered a slip of paper which
had blown under some stones. It proved to be an itinerary. I

didn't return it. I thought they must know which way they were
going; and as this was precisely what I wanted to know, I kept it

for my own use. She is doing the cathedral towns. I am doing the
cathedral towns. Happy thought! Why shouldn't we do them

together,--we and aunt Celia?
I had only ten minutes--to catch my train for Salisbury, but I

concluded to run in and glance at the registers of the principal
hotels. Found my nut-brown mayde at once on the pages of the Royal

Garden Inn register: "Miss Celia Van Tyck, Beverly, Mass.; Miss
Katharine Schuyler, New York." I concluded to stay over another

train, ordered dinner, and took an altogether indefensible and
inconsistent pleasure in writing "John Quincy Copley, Cambridge,

Mass.," directly beneath the charmer's autograph.
SHE

SALISBURY, June 1
The White Hart Inn.

We left Winchester on the 1.06 train yesterday, and here we are
within sight of another superb and ancient pile of stone. I wanted

so much to stop at the Highflyer Inn in Lark Lane, but aunt Celia
said that if we were destitute of personal dignity, we at least owed

something to our ancestors. Aunt Celia has a temperamental distrust
of joy as something dangerous and ensnaring. She doesn't realize

what fun it would be to date one's letters from the Highflyer Inn,
Lark Lane, even if one were obliged to consort with poachers and

cockneys in order to do it.
We attended service at three. The music was lovely, and there were

beautiful stained-glass windows by Burne-Jones and Morris. The
verger (when wound up with a shilling) talked like an electric doll.

If that nice young man is making a cathedral tour, like ourselves,
he isn't taking our route, for he isn't here. If he has come over

for the purpose of sketching, he wouldn't stop at sketching one
cathedral. Perhaps he began at the other end and worked down to

Winchester. Yes, that must be it, for the Ems sailed yesterday from
Southampton.

* * *
June 2.

We intended to go to Stonehenge this morning, but it rained, so we
took a "growler" and went to the Earl of Pembroke's country place to

see the pictures. Had a delightful morning with the magnificent
antiques, curios, and portraits. The Van Dyck room is a joy

forever. There were other visitors; nobody who looked especially
interesting. Don't like Salisbury so well as Winchester. Don't

know why. We shall drive this afternoon, if it is fair, and go to
Wells to-morrow. Must read Baedeker on the bishop's palace. Oh

dear! if one could only have a good time and not try to know
anything!

Memoranda: This cathedral has the highest spire. Remember:
Winchester, longest nave; Salisbury, highest spire.

The Lancet style is those curved lines meeting in a rounding or a
sharp point like this

[drawing like two very circular n's next to each other]
and then joined together like this:

///
the way they used to scallopflannel petticoats. Gothic looks like

triangles meeting together in various spots and joined with
beautiful sort of ornamented knobs. I think I know Gothic when I

see it. Then there is Norman, Early English, fully developed Early
English, Early and Late Perpendicular, and Transition. Aunt Celia

knows them all apart.
HE

SALISBURY, June 3
The Red Lion.

I went off on a long tramp this afternoon, and coming on a pretty
river flowing through green meadows, with a fringe of trees on

either side, I sat down to make a sketch. I heard feminine voices
in the vicinity, but, as these are generally a part of the landscape

in the tourist season, I paid no special notice. Suddenly a dainty
patent-leather shoe floated towards me on the surface of the stream.

It evidently" target="_blank" title="ad.明显地">evidently had just dropped in, for it was right side up with
care, and was disporting itself right merrily. "Did ever Jove's

tree drop such fruit?" I quoted, as I fished it out on my stick; and
just then I heard a distressed voice saying, "Oh, aunt Celia, I've

lost my smart little London shoe. I was sitting in a tree, taking a
pebble out of the heel, when I saw a caterpillar, and I dropped it

into the river, the shoe, you know, not the caterpillar." Hereupon
she came in sight, and I witnessed the somewhat unusualspectacle of

my nut-brown mayde hopping on one foot, like a divine stork, and
ever and anon emitting a feminineshriek as her off foot, clad in a

delicate silk stocking, came in contact with the ground. I rose
quickly, and, polishing the patent leather ostentatiously, inside

and out, with my handkerchief, I offered it to her with
distinguished grace. She swayed on her one foot with as much

dignity as possible, and then recognizing me as the person who
picked up the contents of aunt Celia's bag, she said, dimpling in

the most distracting manner (that's another thing there ought to be
a law against), "Thank you again; you seem to be a sort of knight-

errant!"
"Shall I--assist you?" I asked. (I might have known that this was

going too far.)
"No, thank you," she said, with polar frigidity. "Good-afternoon."

And she hopped back to her aunt Celia without another word.
I don't know how to approach aunt Celia. She is formidable. By a

curious accident of feature, for which she is not in the least
responsible, she always wears an unfortunate expression as of one

perceiving some offensive odor in the immediate vicinity. This may
be a mere accident of high birth. It is the kind of nose often seen

in the "first families," and her name betrays the fact that she is
of good old Knickerbocker origin. We go to Wells to-morrow. At

least I think we do.
SHE

GLOUCESTER, June 9
The Spread Eagle.

I met him at Wells, and again at Bath. We are always being
ridiculous, and he is always rescuing us. Aunt Celia never really