which only a few acknowledged. When | splendor which made himself feel so Pat's heart, if he had a heart, or the big pulse that did service for it, gave a bound This was the condition in which things as he looked. It seemed to him at the were when the new family came to the first glance that this new face was more Castle. Mr. Torrance was one of the first aristocratic, more distinguished, for not callers, partly because his pride as at being pretty. The lilies and roses of the once the head of an old family and the other were familiar to him. Bright eyes richest man in the county, made him and fine complexions were by no means eager to assert his position with the new rare in the county. They were to be earl as a leader of the local society a found everywhere, in the cottages as well position which not even the chances their as in the castles. He was not impressed daughters might have of sharing it would by them. The smiles and animation were have prevailed on the other county mag- common things; but Lady Caroline with nates to permit him, and partly be- her gentle paleness, her slim form pliant cause of the new candidates for his favor and bending, even her nose, which was who were to be found in the family of a little too long, was the impersonation of Lindores. Notwithstanding the prevalent refinement and rank, and fine superiority. idea that Bessie Runciman at the Black His imagination, if he had an imagination, Bear in Dunearn, had just as good a took fire. He thought he could see her chance for the prize as any competitor, moving about with languid grace through nothing could be further from the fact his fine salons, far more fine than they, or the intentions of the hero. His de- lending them an air of delicacy and imtermination all along had been to pro-portance which they had never possessed cure himself a wife who should be in before. He felt himself to be "struck" harmony, not so much with himself as with the grandeur of his house and what he believed to be his position; and the hunting lady and the publican's daughter had been equally out of the question. For himself, he might have liked either of them well enough; but as a matter of fact, it was not too much refinement, but not refinement enough which this rude squire found among his country neighbors. None of them was fine enough for Tinto. He wanted somebody who would be at home in the grand rooms overloaded with decoration who would be, if possible, superior to the killing by Lady Caroline as he never had been "struck" till now. That was rank, he said to himself admiringly. To be sure, rank was what he had wanted; he had never realized it before, but now he perceived it as plain as daylight. He had been wiser than he was aware of in his fastidiousness; and now he saw suddenly presented before him the very object of which he had been in search. Lady Caroline Torrance!—that was what it was. This chance meeting, and the instant conviction that followed, had taken place some time before the interview between the sisters, which we have described. - 66 'Why not?" said the earl, with a still deeper shadow on his face. Lady Lindores saw very clearly when her attention was aroused; but she was a high-minded woman, slow to be awakened to suspicion, and scorning to think evil. It seemed to her an evidence of a poor nature to suppose any one else capable of an act you would not have done yourself. How it was that the suitor communicated | She wondered audibly, even after the eyes his wishes to the earl, or the earl to poor of Edith had been opened, what that odiCarry, it is impossible to tell or if, in-ous man wanted here; and indeed did all deed, up to this time, any communication but refuse to ask him to a diner intime, at had been made on the subject. Most which her husband desired his presence. likely there had been no communication; "Torrance of Tinto," she cried, with a but the proposal, which turned the light cloud on her face; "why Torrance of into darkness for Carry, was in the air, Tinto? He has already dined here. overshadowing everything. Her father Why should we have him again? saw it in the dark face of Pat Torrance, and she surmised it in her father's eyes. Before a word had been said she knew her fate, struggling dumbly against it like a creature fascinated and magnetized in the grip of a monster, but without any possibility or hope of escape. There was something more terrible in this silent certainty than there would have been in any conflict. She felt herself sucked in as to a whirlpool, overpowered, all her forces taken from her in the giddy rush with which the days and hours were carrying her on, irresistible, to that climax. It was this fatal consciousness which made her cry out, "I will never give him up; " which was the cry, not of resolution, but of despair. All that she could do in her sick and failing soul was to grasp at and cling to the weeds on the bank, while the current carried her wildly on, plucking them out of her hands. Edith, who was of so different a nature, stood by appalled, astonished, not knowing how to account for her sister's helplessness. She was positive, as her mother said, not visionary, incapable either of divining what was going to happen or of yielding to it. Why Carry could not simply make up her mind to refuse, to stand fast, to resist whatever powers might be brought to bear upon her, was a thing which Edith could not understand. "Why not? I think that jumps at the eyes," she said. It was Lady Lindores's weakness to employ idioms which, being translated idioms, sounded very strange to ordinary ears. This was so far comprehensible because she had lived abroad the greater part of her life, and she thought the polyglot chatter which is so common, especially among the English abroad, vulgar; so she translated her French, and thought it less objectionable. "That jumps at the eyes," she said; "he is not a friend of the house-only a recent acquaintance-and he has dined here already. Why have him again? He is not an attractive person. You cannot care for him, Robert; and he is no favorite with the girls." "The girls must learn to receive the people I approve of," said the earl, "or we shall quarrel. You must make them aware of that." 66 Quarrel! for the sake of Mr. Torrance! That is carrying clanship a great way." And stranger still, Lady Lindores had not even found it out. She disliked Mr. "There is no clanship in it. You ought Torrance, and made no secret of her dis- to know better, my dear. Your English like. "If that is your type of a Scotch fallacies are quite out of place here. If I laird, I cannot say I like the species," she had a clan (which I have not - we are said, eliciting a soft, "Oh, mamma!" from purely Norman, not Celtic at all), Pat TorEdith, who remembered very well a state-rance could have had as little to do with ment of an entirely contrary character it as John Smith." which her mother had once made. "If 66 My dear Robert," said Lady Lindores, young Erskine is a type of a young Scotch for she had not learned to address her laird, I am disposed to fall in love with husband by his title, "you take it very the class," was what Lady Lindores had seriously. I meant your kindness for then said. Edith remembered it dis- your own people. But for a kind prejutinctly, but gave her tongue a little mali-dice, which I admire and respect, for your cious bite, and would not recall it to her old neighbors, you never would put up mother's mind; for was not young Ers- with a being like this Tinto, as they call kine coming back? But Lady Lindores's him, -a rich fox-hunter, with the mind feeling about Torrance was more than of a ploughman." passive. She took care to let him see that he was not a favorite in the house. "You will oblige me, Mary," said her husband coldly, "by restraining your opinion - at all events until you have a better right to express it. What do you know of Pat Torrance? I should very much prefer that you did not commit yourself on the subject. You might regret it after." "Commit myself! regret it! Lady Lindores gazed at her husband with consternation. She had absolutely no guide to what he could mean; but as he stood to his point and would not yield, and as one must certainly yield when such a question arises, she found herself unwillingly obliged to give in. She was behind her children in comprehension, strange as it seems to say so. Lady Lindores' had not been unfavorable to Beaufort's claims when first he made his suit to Carry; but she had been perhaps a little disappointed in him as the years passed on. He had not shown the energy, the determination, which a man in such circumstances ought to show. He had made no passionate effort to obtain his bride, such as Carry's mother felt her child was worth. And it was a long time now since Lady Lindores had taken any notice of the lingering engagement which her husband had never positively sanctioned, but which had lingered on for a year or two, coming to nothing. She had thought it best not to interfere. Perhaps Mr. Beaufort might think it his duty to release Carry, now that her position was so much changed. The mother did not feel that she could ask him to do so; but if any thing had happened to the tardy lover had he been ill, or died, or proved fickle, she would have felt that Providence was interfering on their behalf. In the mean time, she thought it the best policy to say nothing about it. And it was this reticence which she intended for wisdom, which prevented any explanation between them, and kept her ignorant of what even Edith knew. It did not occur to her to connect her child, so delicate and refined, with the rough and coarse squire, whom she could not tolerate. How her husband could put up with him Lady Lindores could not conceive. He certainly meant something by it, she thought; but what did he mean? Was it some scheme of tactics in respect to the next election? which already, she knew, gave Lord Lindores great concern. Perhaps the earl, who had a devouring ambition, now that he found an opening for it, thought it well to have the richest man in the county under his influence. This was all that she | had yet divined. "Your father insists upon having that Mr. Torrance," she said to the girls. "What he can see in him, I cannot imagine. But that does not look at us. We are not called upon to make martyrs of ourselves for papa's political friends." Carry looked up eagerly as her mother spoke. "Political!" she said, with a quiver of hopeful eagerness in her voice. Is that the reason?" This eager tone and broken question would have made Lady Lindores wonder had she not been full of the subject from her own point of view. "What else?" she said. "You cannot suppose a man like your father can find anything else in Mr. Torrance to attract him. Politics are very entrancing, but, like necessity, they bring you acquaintance with strange bedfellows. Papa thinks, no doubt, that he ought to turn his influence to account." "Oh, if that is the reason!" said Carry, clasping her hands together, with something like an ecstasy of prayer and thankfulness in her face. Lady Lindores, though she thought the emotion excessive-but then Carry was always visionary — understood that her daughter's delicate soul had been wounded by her father's regard for so unattractive a person. She patted her child upon the cheek tenderly. "You must not consider yourself responsible for all the things we do in the prosecution of our several parts," she said. "I feel, for my own part, that I take a great deal too much notice of old Gardener. I am getting much too fond of him. This is more innocent, I allow, than your father's fancy for Mr. Torrance; for I don't insist on asking old Gardener to dinner. "That I never should object to!" cried Carry, kissing her mother with sudden enthusiasm. She was cheered beyond measure by the comparison, and by Lady Lindores's absolute ignorance of any other pretension on the part of Torrance. Perhaps she had been deceiving herself, and attributing to her father intentions that had never entered his mind. Carry was too thankful to think that this might be how it was. But Edith, the clearsighted, avoided her sister's eye. She made no comment on what her mother said. Edith felt that, however others might be deceived, she knew. From The Nineteenth Century. THE question of the restoration of our ancient buildings has of late years been the cause of a war, which has raged furi: ously, and of which our great cathedral cities have been the chief theatre. On the one side are ranged the architects, and the majority of the bishops, deans, chapters, and clergy. These are the restorationists. On the other side are the purists, represented by the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings, who would allow nothing to be touched. Great is the eagerness, great the enthusiasm, in both armies. The purists indeed are weak in numbers and they lack the heavy artillery of the restorationists. But against these disadvantages they have as a set-off the heroism and the courage of fanaticism; and if occasionally they run a tilt at a windmill, it is impossible not to admire their chivalry and their simple devotion to their cause. relieve a Norman clerestory of the bricks which block it up? It is all very well to say that even the uglinesses with which a fine old building has been loaded by the ignorance of a bygone time mark an epoch in its history, and have an interest of their own. The cases are rare indeed, and must have some historic association of special gravity, where the world at large will not prefer to see such blemishes removed, and the original beauty of the building given back. It may almost be said that the history of the Tower of London is the history of England. For eight hundred years as fortress, palace, and prison it has been continuously inhabited. Recent discov. eries have shown that Roman buildings of considerable importance stood upon the same site. Tradition and the poets had gone so far as to attribute the existing Tower to Julius Cæsar; we know that it was erected by William the Conqueror, but it adds to the interest by which the spot is surrounded when we reflect that it was a Roman stronghold for a thousand years or more before the Norman king caused one stone of the great White Tower to be laid upon another. The aim of this paper, however, is not to take up the cudgels either on the one side or on the other, in this dispute; but to explain the object of certain works of restoration which have been carried on for some years past about the Tower of London, and which it is hoped will shortly be brought to a good end. It must be shown that the works yet remaining to be done are expedient and necessary, and that they will be faithfully and honestly executed, neither inventing nor designing new plans, but following strictly in the The outside public will probably think old lines, which have happily been prethat, as in most quarrels, so in this, there served in ancient drawings and engravis something to be said on both sides. It ings. cannot be denied that many of our na tional monuments have suffered some wrong at the hands of their restorers, and that in this respect some of the great architects have been the greatest sinners. Indeed, it could hardly be otherwise. A fragment of a wall is to an antiquarian architect what a single fossil bone is to the comparative anatomist. From it he will reason out and reproduce a whole; there being between the processes respectively followed by the architect and the professor, the difference which exists between the immutable laws of nature and the whims of the imagination of man. The most learned arguments of the artist are after all subject to the wayward caprice of the man whose work he is endeavoring to retrace. The professor, on the other hand, is following up his work with a conviction which is born of necessity. Now it is the knowledge of the uncertainty which at best must surround him, which tempts the architect to stray from the strict lines of restoration pure and simple and to begin improving. Here is his danger, and the more fertile his power of invention the greater will that danger be. On the other hand, what numberless beauties that had lain hidden for ages have been revealed by judicious restoration! Can it be said to be an act of vandalism to peel off the plaster which hides the mural painting of the old monks, or to It was not until eighteen years after the Conquest that William turned his attention to fortifying the river approach to London. He summoned as his architect Gundulf, the weeping monk of Bec in Normandy, a Benedictine of considerable acquirements, whom travel had made familiar not only with the best specimens of architecture in his own country, but even with the more ornate school of the East. He is said to have been a pupil of Lan This is the way To Julius Cæsar's ill-erected Tower. GRAY. हर 66 franc and the friend of Anselm, and it is | Tower of London during the reigns of So Gundulf wept and built, and Ralph Flambard, Bishop of Durham, found the money, little wotting that he was taxing and robbing the people to erect a prison for himself. Probably the earliest description of the Tower of London is that quoted by Stow of Fitzstephen, who lived in the twelfth century: "The city of London hath in the east a very great and most strong palatine tower, whose turrets and walls do rise from a deep foundation, the mortar thereof being tempered with the blood of beasts." Perhaps Gundulf pounded up the old red tiles and bricks of the Romans to mix his mortar, and the people, only too ready to surround with new glamor the great threatening tower that was springing up in their midst, accounted for the color in this way. Gundulf is said to have lived to the age of eighty, and to have seen the completion of the works which he designed about the Tower, including a church dedicated to St. Peter, which stood on the site of the present chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula. William Rufus actively pushed on the work which had been begun under the auspices of his father: "He challenged the investiture of the prelates; he pilled and shaved the people with tribute, especially to spend about the Tower of London and the Great Hall at Westminster." There is considerable doubt as to what were the actual additions made to the Upon the death of Rufus the citizens of London seized Ralph Flambard, whom they hated for his extortions, and Henry, who had reasons enough for conciliating the Commons in the face of the impending struggle for the kingdom with his brother Robert, sent the ex-treasurer to be imprisoned in the Tower, the first of a long roll of political captives. But he led an easy life there, well lodged and well fed, with liberty to buy what luxuries he might wish for over and above what could be procured for the two shillings a day assigned for his maintenance out of the royal exchequer. One fine day, using a trick as old as the time of Ulysses, he sent for a number of kegs of wine, and gave a great feast to his gaolers, who got helplessly drunk. In one of the kegs was concealed a rope, by which the burly bishop let himself down out of window, and although the rope was too short, and he had an awkward drop to brave, Flambard, fat as he was, took no hurt, and made good his escape to France. This happened in the month of February, IIOI. Poor Griffin, Prince of Wales, who tried the same adventure in Henry III.'s reign, did not fare so well. He too was a portly man, and he broke his neck. The first four constables of the tower were Othowerus, Acolinillus, Otto, and Geffrey Magnaville, Earl of Essex -men of rapacious character and strong grasp, for they took East Smithfield, which belonged to the priory of the Holy Trinity within Aldgate, and held it as a vineyard. No wonder the people looked with terror and dislike upon the frowning walls which harbored knights so bold that even the Church was not safe from their depredations! In the second year of King Stephen the monks came to their own again, but, as will be seen presently, the Tower of London was but an uncomfortable |