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A Cathedral Courtship.......................................................................................................................................1

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We are doing the English cathedral towns, aunt Celia and I. Aunt Celia has an intense desire to improve my

mind. Papa told her, when we were leaving Cedarhurst, that he wouldn't for the world have it too much

improved, and aunt Celia remarked that, so far as she could judge, there was no immediate danger; with

We are traveling under the yoke of an iron itinerary, warranted neither to bend nor break. It was made out by

a young High Church curate in New York, and if it had been blessed by all the bishops and popes it could not

be more sacred to aunt Celia. She is awfully High Church, and I believe she thinks this tour of the cathedrals

will give me a taste for ritual and bring me into the true fold. I have been hearing dear old Dr. Kyle a great

deal lately, and aunt Celia says that he is the most dangerous Unitarian she knows, because he has leanings

Long ago, in her youth, she was engaged to a young architect. He, with his triangles and Tsquares and

things, succeeded in making an imaginary scaledrawing of her heart (up to that time a virgin forest, an

unmapped territory), which enabled him to enter in and set up a pedestal there, on which he has remained

ever since. He has been only a memory for many years, to be sure, for he died at the age of twentysix,

before he had had time to build anything but a livery stable and a country hotel. This is fortunate, on the

whole, because aunt Celia thinks he was destined to establish American architecture on a higher plane,rid

it of its base, time serving, imitative instincts, and waft it to a height where, in the course of centuries, we

should have been revered and followed by all the nations of the earth. I went to see the livery stable, after one

of these Miriamlike flights of prophecy on the mighthavebeen. It isn't fair to judge a man's promise by

This sentiment about architecture and this fondness for the very toppingest High Church ritual cause aunt

Celia to look on the English cathedrals with solemnity and reverential awe. She has given me a fat notebook,

with "Katharine Schuyler" stamped in gold letters on the Russia leather cover, and a lock and key to protect

its feminine confidences. I am not at all the sort of girl who makes notes, and I have told her so; but she says

that I must at least record my passing impressions, if they are ever so trivial and commonplace.

I wanted to go directly from Southampton to London with the Abbotts, our ship friends, who left us

yesterday. Roderick Abbott and I had had a charming time on board ship (more charming than aunt Celia

knows, because she was very ill, and her natural powers of chaperoning were severely impaired), and the

prospect of seeing London sights together was not unpleasing; but Roderick Abbott is not in aunt Celia's

itinerary, which reads: "Winchester, Salisbury, Wells, Bath, Bristol, Gloucester, Oxford, London, Ely,

Aunt Celia is one of those persons who are born to command, and when they are thrown in contact with those

who are born to be commanded all goes as merry as a marriage bell; otherwise not.

So here we are at Winchester; and I don't mind all the Roderick Abbotts in the universe, now that I have seen

the Royal Garden Inn, its pretty coffeeroom opening into the oldfashioned garden, with its borders of clove

pinks, its aviaries, and its blossoming horse chestnuts, great towering masses of pink bloom!

Aunt Celia has driven to St. Cross Hospital with Mrs. Benedict, an estimable lady tourist whom she "picked

up" en route from Southampton. I am tired, and stayed at home. I cannot write letters, because aunt Celia has

the guidebooks, so I sit by the window in indolent content, watching the dear little school laddies, with their

short jackets and wide white collars; they all look so jolly, and rosy, and clean, and kissable! I should like to

kiss the chambermaid, too! She has a pink print dress; no bangs, thank goodness (it's curious our servants

can't leave that deformity to the upper classes), but shining brown hair, plump figure, soft voice, and a most

engaging way of saying, "Yes, miss? Anythink more, miss?" I long to ask her to sit down comfortably and be

English, while I study her as a type, but of course I mustn't. Sometimes I wish I could retire from the world

for a season and do what I like, "surrounded by the general comfort of being thought mad."

An elegant, irreproachable, highminded model of dignity and reserve has just knocked and inquired what

we will have for dinner. It is very embarrassing to give orders to a person who looks like a judge of the

"Just the thing; and for dessert"I couldn't think what we ought to have for dessert in England, but the

highminded model coughed apologetically and said, "I was thinking you might like gooseberry tart and

Oh that I could have vented my New World enthusiasm in a shriek of delight as I heard those intoxicating

"Yees," I said hesitatingly, though I was palpitating with joy, "I fancy we should like gooseberry tart (here a

bright idea entered my mind) and perhaps in case my aunt doesn't care for the gooseberry tart, you might

Now I had never met a lemon squash personally, but I had often heard of it, and wished to show my

"Oh, as to that, it doesn't matter," I said haughtily; "bring a sufficient number for two persons."

Aunt Celia came home in the highest feather. She had twice been taken for an Englishwoman. She said she

thought that lemon squash was a drink; I thought it was a pie; but we shall find out at dinner, for, as I said, I

At four o'clock we attended evensong at the cathedral. I shall not say what I felt when the whitesurpliced

boy choir entered, winding down those vaulted aisles, or when I heard for the first time that intoned service,

with all its "witchcraft of harmonic sound." I sat quite by myself in a high carvedoak seat, and the hour was

passed in a trance of serene delight. I do not have many opinions, it is true, but papa says I am always strong

on sentiments; nevertheless, I shall not attempt to tell even what I feel in these new and beautiful experiences,

There were a great many people at service, and a large number of Americans among them, I should think,

though we saw no familiar faces. There was one particularly nice young man, who looked like a Bostonian.

He sat opposite me. He didn't stare,he was too well bred; but when I looked the other way, he looked at

me. Of course I could feel his eyes,anybody can, at least any girl can; but I attended to every word of the

service, and was as good as an angel. When the procession had filed out and the last strain of the great organ

had rumbled into silence, we went on a tour through the cathedral, a heterogeneous band, headed by a

conscientious old verger who did his best to enlighten us, and succeeded in virtually spoiling my pleasure.

After we had finished (think of "finishing" a cathedral in an hour or two!), aunt Celia and I, with one or two

others, wandered through the beautiful close, looking at the exterior from every possible point, and coming at

last to a certain ruined arch which is very famous. It did not strike me as being remarkable. I could make any

number of them with a pattern, without the least effort. But at any rate, when told by the verger to gaze upon

the beauties of this wonderful relic and tremble, we were obliged to gaze also upon the beauties of the

aforesaid nice young man, who was sketching it. As we turned to go away, aunt Celia dropped her bag. It is

one of those detestable, allabsorbing, alldevouring, thoroughly respectable, but never proud Boston bags,

made of black cloth with leather trimmings, "C. Van T." embroidered on the side, and the top drawn up with

stout cords which pass over the Boston wrist or arm. As for me, I loathe them, and would not for worlds be

I hastened to pick up the horrid thing, for fear the nice young man would feel obliged to do it for me; but, in

my indecorous haste, I caught hold of the wrong end and emptied the entire contents on the stone flagging.

Aunt Celia didn't notice; she had turned with the verger, lest she should miss a single word of his inspired

testimony. So we scrambled up the articles together, the nice young man and I; and oh, I hope I may never

There were prayerbooks and guidebooks, a bottle of soda mint tablets, a spool of dental floss, a Bath bun,

a bit of gray frizz that aunt Celia pins into her steamer cap, a spectacle case, a brandy flask, and a bonbon

box, which broke and scattered cloves and cardamom seeds. (I hope he guessed aunt Celia is a dyspeptic, and

not intemperate!) All this was hopelessly vulgar, but I wouldn't have minded anything if there had not been a

Duchess novel. Of course he thought that it belonged to me. He couldn't have known aunt Celia was carrying

After scooping the cardamom seeds out of the cracks in the stone flagging, he handed me the tattered,

disreputablelooking copy of "A Modern Circe" with a bow that wouldn't have disgraced a Chesterfield, and

Memoranda: The Winchester Cathedral has the longest nave. The inside is more superb than the outside.

As sure as my name is Jack Copley, I saw the prettiest girl in the world today,an American, too, or I'm

greatly mistaken. It was in the cathedral, where I have been sketching for several days. I was sitting in the end

of a seat, at afternoon service, when two ladies entered by the side door. The ancient maiden, evidently the

head of the family, settled herself devoutly, and the young one stole off by herself to one of the old carved

seats back of the choir. She was worse than pretty! I took a sketch of her during service, as she sat under the

There ought to be a law against a woman's making a picture of herself, unless she is willing to sit and be

A black and white sketch doesn't give any definite idea of this charmer's charms, but some time I'll fill it

in,hair, sweet little hat, gown, and eyes, all in golden brown, a cape of tawny sable slipping off her arm, a

knot of yellow primroses in her girdle, carvedoak background, and the afternoon sun coming through a

stainedglass 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 modest monthly income for the felicity of wiping away that teardrop with one of my new

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

"nutbrown 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 nutbrown 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

I had only ten minutesto catch my train for Salisbury, but I concluded to run in and glance at the registers

of the principal hotels. Found my nutbrown 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

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

We attended service at three. The music was lovely, and there were beautiful stainedglass windows by

BurneJones 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

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 tomorrow. Must read Baedeker on the bishop's palace. Oh dear! if one could only have

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

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

the way they used to scallop flannel 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

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

patentleather shoe floated towards me on the surface of the stream. It 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 unusual spectacle of my nutbrown mayde hopping on one foot, like a divine stork,

and ever and anon emitting a feminine shriek 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

"No, thank you," she said, with polar frigidity. "Goodafternoon." And she hopped back to her aunt Celia

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

I met him at Wells, and again at Bath. We are always being ridiculous, and he is always rescuing us. Aunt

Celia never really sees him, and thus never recognizes him when he appears again, always as the flower of

chivalry and guardian of ladies in distress. I will never again travel abroad without a man, even if I have to

hire one from a FeebleMinded Asylum. We work like galley slaves, aunt Celia and I, finding out about

trains and things. Neither of us can understand Bradshaw, and I can't even grapple with the lesser intricacies

of the A B C railway guide. The trains, so far as I can see, always arrive before they go out, and I can never

tell whether to read up the page or down. It is certainly very queer that the stupidest man that breathes, one

that barely escapes idiocy, can disentangle a railway guide, when the brightest woman fails. Even the Boots

at the inn in Wells took my book, and, rubbing his frightfully dirty finger down the row of puzzling figures,

found the place in a minute, and said, "There ye are, miss." It is very humiliating. All the time I have left

from the study of routes and hotels I spend on guidebooks. Now I'm sure that if any one of the men I know

were here, he could tell me all that is necessary as we walk along the streets. I don't say it in a frivolous or

sentimental spirit in the least, but I do affirm that there is hardly any juncture in life where one isn't better off

for having a man about. I should never dare divulge this to aunt Celia, for she doesn't think men very nice.

But, to go on, we were standing at the door of Ye Olde Bell and Horns, at Bath, waiting for the fly which we

had ordered to take us to the station, when who should drive up in a fourwheeler but the flower of chivalry.

Aunt Celia was saying very audibly, "We shall certainly miss the train if the man doesn't come at once."

"Pray take this fly," said the flower of chivalry. "I am not leaving till the next train."

Aunt Celia got in without a murmur; I sneaked in after her. I don't think she looked at him, though she did

At Bristol, I was walking about by myself, and I espied a sign, "Martha Huggins, Licensed Victualer." It was

a nice, tidy little shop, with a fire on the hearth and flowers in the window, and, as it was raining smartly, I

thought no one would catch me if I stepped inside to chat with Martha. I fancied it would be so delightful and

Dickensy to talk quietly with a licensed victualer by the name of Martha Huggins.

Just after I had settled myself, the flower of chivalry came in and ordered ale. I was disconcerted at being

found in a dramshop alone, for I thought, after the bag episode, he might fancy us a family of inebriates. But

he didn't evince the slightest astonishment; he merely lifted his hat, and walked out after he had finished his

And so it goes on, and we never get any further. I like his politeness and his evident feeling that I can't be

flirted and talked with like a forward boardingschool miss, but I must say I don't think much of his

ingenuity. Of course one can't have all the virtues, but, if I were he, I would part with my distinguished air,

my charming ease, in fact almost anything, if I could have in exchange a few grains of common sense, just

I wonder what he is? He might be an artist, but he doesn't seem quite like an artist; or a dilettante, but he

doesn't seem in the least like a dilettante. Or he might be an architect; I think that is the most probable guess

of all. Perhaps he is only "going to be" one of these things, for he can't be more than twentyfive or

twentysix. Still he looks as if he were something already; that is, he has a kind of selfreliance in his

mien,not selfassertion, nor selfesteem, but belief in self, as if he were able, and knew that he was able,

Nothing accomplished yet. Her aunt is a Van Tyck, and a stiff one, too. I am a Copley, and that delays

matters. Much depends upon the manner of approach. A false move would be fatal. We have six more towns

(as per itinerary), and if their thirst for cathedrals isn't slaked when these are finished we have the entire

continent to do. If I could only succeed in making an impression on the retina of aunt Celia's eye! Though I

have been under her feet for ten days, she never yet has observed me. This absentmindedness of hers serves

It was here in Oxford that a grain of common sense entered the brain of the flower of chivalry. You might

call it the dawn of reason. We had spent part of the morning in High Street, "the noblest old street in

England," as our dear Hawthorne calls it. As Wordsworth had written a sonnet about it, aunt Celia was armed

for the fray,a volume of Wordsworth in one hand, and one of Hawthorne in the other. (I wish Baedeker

didn't give such full information about what one ought to read before one can approach these places in a

proper spirit.) When we had done High Street, we went to Magdalen College, and sat down on a bench in

Addison's Walk, where aunt Celia proceeded to store my mind with the principal facts of Addison's career,

and his influence on the literature of the something or other century. The cramming process over, we

Aunt Celia went up behind him, and, Van Tyck though she is, she could not restrain her admiration of his

work. I was surprised myself: I didn't suppose so good looking a youth could do such good work. I retired to

a safe distance, and they chatted together. He offered her the sketch; she refused to take advantage of his

kindness. He said he would "dash off" another that evening, and bring it to our hotel,"so glad to do

anything for a fellow countryman," etc. I peeped from behind a tree and saw him give her his card. It was an

awful moment; I trembled, but she read it with unmistakable approval, and gave him her own with an

She called to me, and I appeared. Mr. John Quincy Copley, Cambridge, was presented to her niece, Miss

Katharine Schuyler, New York. It was over, and a very small thing to take so long about, too.

He is an architect, and of course has a smooth path into aunt Celia's affections. Theological students,

ministers, missionaries, heroes, and martyrs she may distrust, but architects never!

"He is an architect, my dear Katharine, and he is a Copley," she told me afterwards. "I never knew a Copley

After the introduction was over, aunt Celia asked him guilelessly if he had visited any other of the English

cathedrals. Any others, indeed! This to a youth who had been all but in her lap for a fortnight! It was a blow,

but he rallied bravely, and, with an amused look in my direction, replied discreetly that he had visited most of

them at one time or another. I refused to let him see that I had ever noticed him before; that is, particularly.

Memoranda: "The very stones and mortar of this historic town seem impregnated with the spirit of restful

antiquity." (Extract from one of aunt Celia's letters.) Among the great men who have studied here are the

Prince of Wales, Duke of Wellington, Gladstone, Sir Robert Peel, Sir Philip Sidney, William Penn, John

I have done it, and if I hadn't been a fool and a coward I might have done it a week ago, and spared myself a

good deal of delicious torment. I have just given two hours to a sketch of Addison's Walk and carried it to

aunt Celia at the Mitre. Object, to find out whether they make a long stay in London (our next point), and if

so where. It seems they go directly through. I said in the course of conversation, "So Miss Schuyler is willing

"My niece did not come to Europe for a London season," replied Miss Van Tyck. "We go through London

this time merely as a cathedral town, simply because it chances to be where it is geographically. We shall

visit St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey, and then go directly on, that our chain of impressions may have

I am stopping at a beastly little hole, which has the one merit of being opposite Miss Schuyler's lodgings. My

sketchbook has deteriorated in artistic value during the last two weeks. Many of its pages, while interesting

to me as reminiscences, will hardly do for family or studio exhibition. If I should label them, the result would

6. Tomb of another bishop, where I had to tie it again because I did it so badly the first time.

8. Sketch of the blessed verger who called her "madam," when we were walking together.

Mr. Copley HAS done something in the world; I was sure that he had. He has a little income of his own, but

he is too proud and ambitious to be an idler. He looked so manly when he talked about it, standing up straight

and strong in his knickerbockers. I like men in knickerbockers. Aunt Celia doesn't. She says she doesn't see

how a wellbroughtup Copley can go about with his legs in that condition. I would give worlds to know

how aunt Celia ever unbent sufficiently to get engaged. But, as I was saying, Mr. Copley has accomplished

something, young as he is. He has built three picturesque suburban churches suitable for weddings, and a

Aunt Celia says we shall have no worthy architecture until every building is made an exquisitely sincere

representation of its deepest purpose,a symbol, as it were, of its indwelling meaning. I should think it

would be very difficult to design a lunatic asylum on that basis, but I didn't dare say so, as Mr. Copley

seemed to think it all right. Their conversation is absolutely sublimated when they get to talking of

architecture. I have just copied two quotations from Emerson, and am studying them every night for fifteen

minutes before I go to sleep. I'm going to quote them some time offhand, just after morning service, when we

are wandering about the cathedral grounds. The first is this: "The Gothic cathedral is a blossoming in stone,

subdued by the insatiable demand of harmony in man. The mountain of granite blooms into an eternal flower,

with the lightness and delicate finish as well as the aerial proportion and perspective of vegetable beauty."

Then when he has recovered from the shock of this, here is my second: "Nor can any lover of nature enter the

old piles of Oxford and English cathedrals without feeling that the forest overpowered the mind of the

builder, and that his chisel, his saw and plane, still reproduced its ferns, its spikes of flowers, its locust, elm,

Memoranda: Lincoln choir is an example of Early English or First Pointed, which can generally be told from

something else by bold projecting buttresses and dogtooth moulding round the abacusses. (The plural is my

own, and it does not look right.) Lincoln Castle was the scene of many prolonged sieges, and was once taken

Kitty Schuyler is the concentrated essence of feminine witchery. Intuition strong, logic weak, and the two

qualities so balanced as to produce an indefinable charm; willpower large, but docility equal, if a man is

clever enough to know how to manage her; knowledge of facts absolutely nil, but she is exquisitely

intelligent in spite of it. She has a way of evading, escaping, eluding, and then gives you an intoxicating hint

of sudden and complete surrender. She is divinely innocent, but roguishness saves her from insipidity. Her

looks? She looks as you would imagine a person might look who possessed these graces; and she is worth

looking at, though every time I do it I have a rush of love to the head. When you find a girl who combines all

the qualities you have imagined in the ideal, and who has added a dozen or two on her own account, merely

to distract you past all hope, why stand up and try to resist her charm? Down on your knees like a man, say I!

I'm getting to adore aunt Celia. I didn't care for her at first, but she is so deliciously blind! Anything more

exquisitely unserviceable as a chaperon I can't imagine. Absorbed in antiquity, she ignores the babble of

contemporaneous lovers. That any man could look at Kitty when he could look at a cathedral passes her

comprehension. I do not presume too greatly on her absent mindedness, however, lest she should turn

unexpectedly and rend me. I always remember that inscription on the backs of the little mechanical French

toys,"Quoiqu'elle soit tres solidement montee, il faut ne pas brutaliser la machine."

And so my courtship progresses under aunt Celia's very nose. I say "progresses," but it is impossible to speak

with any certainty of courting, for the essence of that gentle craft is hope, rooted in labor and trained by love.

I set out to propose to her during service this afternoon by writing my feelings on the flyleaf of the

hymnbook, or something like that; but I knew that aunt Celia would never forgive such blasphemy, and I

thought that Kitty herself might consider it wicked. Besides, if she should chance to accept me, there was

nothing I could do, in a cathedral, to relieve my feelings. No; if she ever accepts me, I wish it to be in a large,

vacant spot of the universe, peopled by two only, and those two so indistinguishably blended, as it were, that

they would appear as one to the casual observer. So I practiced repression, though the wall of my reserve is

worn to the thinness of threadpaper, and I tried to keep my mind on the droning minor canon, and not to

My taste is so bad! I just begin to realize it, and I am feeling my "growing pains," like Gwendolen in "Daniel

Deronda." I admired the stained glass in the Lincoln Cathedral, especially the Nuremberg window. I thought

Mr. Copley looked pained, but he said nothing. When I went to my room, I looked in a book and found that

all the glass in that cathedral is very modern and very bad, and the Nuremberg window is the worst of all.

Aunt Celia says she hopes that it will be a warning to me to read before I speak; but Mr. Copley says no, that

the world would lose more in one way than it would gain in the other. I tried my quotations this morning, and

Mr. Copley says that aunt Celia has been feeing the vergers altogether too much, and I wrote a song about it

called "The Ballad of the Vergers and the Foolish Virgin," which I sang to my guitar. Mr. Copley says it is

cleverer than anything he ever did with his pencil, but of course he says that only to be agreeable.

We all went to an evening service last night. Coming home, aunt 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

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

"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, because I couldn't see how he could twist such a remark as

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

"The building of aircastles is an innocent amusement enough, I suppose," he said, "but I'm committing the

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 sittingroom 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

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 handluggage that he resembled a packmule. 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

"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

"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 constant consumption 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

"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."

"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 coffeeroom 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.

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

I am so happy that I feel as if something were going to spoil it all. Twenty years old today! I wish mamma

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

WrenChristopher), architecture has had, in England especially, no legitimate development."

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 Kittyand 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

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 head shall be hurt. Don't be frightened."

She shivered like a leaf. "I am frightened," she said. "I can't help being frightened. He will chase us, I know.

Looking up to determine if I need abbreviate this blissful moment, I saw the enraged animal disappearing in

the side door of the barn; and it was a nice, comfortable Durham cow,that somewhat rare but possible

My first too hasty assurance had calmed Kitty's fears, and she raised her charming flushed face from its

retreat and prepared to withdraw. I did not facilitate the preparations, and a moment of awkward silence

"Might I inquire," I asked, "if the dear little person at present reposing in my arms will stay there (with

"I suppose I shall have to now,that is, if you thinkat least, I suppose you do thinkat any rate, you look

"I don't think I ought to be judged as if I were in my sober senses," she replied. "I was frightened within an

inch of my life. I told you this morning that I was dreadfully afraid of bulls, especially mad ones, and I told

you that my nurse frightened me, when I was a child, with awful stories about them, and that I never outgrew

my childish terror. I looked everywhere about: the barn was too far, the fence too high, I saw him coming,

and there was nothing but you and the open country; of course I took you. It was very natural, I'm sure,any

"To be sure," I replied soothingly, "any girl would have run after me, as you say."

"I didn't say any girl would have run after you,you needn't flatter yourself; and besides, I think I was really

trying to protect you as well as to gain protection; else why should I have cast myself on you like a

"Yes, darling, I thank you for saving my life, and I am willing to devote the remainder of it to your service as

a pledge of my gratitude; but if you should take up lifesaving as a profession, dear, don't throw yourself on a

"Jack! Jack!" she cried, putting her hand over my lips, and getting it well kissed in consequence. "If you will

only forget that, and never, never taunt me with it afterwards, I'llI'llwell, I'll do anything in reason; yes,

I was never sure enough of Kitty, at first, to dare risk telling her about that little mistake of hers. She is such

an elusive person that I spend all my time in wooing her, and can never lay flattering unction to my soul that

But after aunt Celia had looked up my family record and given a provisional consent, and papa Schuyler had

cabled a reluctant blessing, I did not feel capable of any further selfrestraint.

It was twilight here in Canterbury, and we were sitting on the vine shaded veranda of aunt Celia's lodging.

Kitty's head was on my shoulder. There is something very queer about that; when Kitty's head is on my

shoulder, I am not capable of any consecutive train of thought. When she puts it there I see stars, then

myriads of stars, then, oh! I can't begin to enumerate the steps by which ecstasy mounts to delirium; but at all

events, any operation which demands exclusive use of the intellect is beyond me at these times. Still I

"Now that nothing but death or marriage can separate us, I have something to confess to you."

I lifted her head from my shoulder sternly, and gazed into her childlike, candid eyes.

"Ever since the first. Oh, Jack, stop looking at me in that way! Not the very first, not when Inot when

younot when weno, not then, but the next morning I said to Farmer Hendry, 'I wish you would keep

your savage bull chained up while we are here; aunt Celia is awfully afraid of them, especially those that go

mad, like yours!' 'Lor', miss,' said Farmer Hendry, 'he haven't been pastured here for three weeks. I keep him

six mile away. There ben't nothing but gentle cows in the home medder.' But I didn't think that you knew, you

secretive person! I dare say you planned the whole thing in advance, in order to take advantage of my fright!"

"Never! I am incapable of such an unnecessary subterfuge! Besides, Kitty, I could not have made an

" Then," she said, with great dignity, "if you had been a gentleman and a man of honor, you would have

Jack and I are going over this same ground next summer, on our wedding trip. We shall sail for home next

week, and we haven't half done justice to the cathedrals. After the first two, we saw nothing but each other on

a general background of architecture. I hope my mind is improved, but oh, I am so hazy about all the facts I

have read since I knew Jack! Winchester and Salisbury stand out superbly in my memory. They acquired

their ground before it was occupied with other matters. I shall never forget, for instance, that Winchester has

the longest spire and Salisbury the highest nave of all the English cathedrals. And I shall never forget so long

as I live that Jane Austen and Isaac Newt Oh dear! was it Isaac Newton or Izaak Walton that was buried in

Winchester and Salisbury? To think that that interesting fact should have slipped from my mind, after all the

trouble I took with it! But I know that it was Isaac somebody, and that he was buried inwell, he was buried

in one of those two places. I am not certain which, but I can ask Jack; he is sure to know.