Now, for my part, I should like to drop St. Paul's for once, and omit Westminster Abbey for the moment, and sit on the top of a bus with Miss Schuyler or in a hansom jogging up and down Piccadilly. The hansom should have bouquets of paper-flowers in the windows, and the horse should wear carnations in his headstall, and Miss Schuyler should ask me questions, to which I should always know the right answers. This would be but a prelude, for I should wish later to ask her questions to which I should hope she would also know the right answers.

Heigho! I didn't suppose that anything could be lovelier than that girl's smile, but there is, and it is her voice.

I shall call there again to-morrow morning. I don't know on what pretext, but I shall call, for my visit was curtailed this evening by the entrance of the waiter, who asked what they would have for breakfast. Miss Van Tyck said she would be disengaged in a moment, so naturally I departed, with a longing to knock the impudent waiter's head against the uncomprehending wall. Breakfast indeed! A fellow can breakfast regularly, and yet be in a starving condition.

_He_

Oxford, _June 14_, The Angel.

I have just called. They have gone! Gone hours before they intended! How shall I find her in London?

_He_

London, _June 15_, Walsingham House Hotel.

As a cathedral town London leaves much to be desired. There are too many hotels, too many people, and the distances are too great. For ten hours I kept a hansom galloping between St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey, with no result. I am now going to Ely, where I shall stay in the cathedral from morning till night, and have my meals brought to me on a tray by the verger.

_She_

Ely, _June 15_, At Miss Kettlestring's lodgings.

I have lost him! He was not at St. Paul's or Westminster in London--great, cruel, busy, brutal London, that could swallow up any precious thing and make no sign. And he is not here! They say it is a very fine cathedral.

Memoranda: _The Octagon is perhaps the most beautiful and original design to be found in the whole range of Gothic architecture. Remember also the retrochoir. The lower tier of windows consists of three long lancets, with groups of Purbeck shafts at the angles; the upper, of five lancets, diminishing from the centre, and set back, as in the clerestory, within an arcade supported by shafts._ (I don't believe even he could make head or tail of this.) _Remember the curious bosses under the brackets of the stone altar in the Alc.o.c.k Chapel. They represent ammonites projecting from their sh.e.l.ls and biting each other._ (If I were an ammonite I know I should bite Aunt Celia. Look up ammonite.)

_He_

Ely, _June 18_, The Lamb Hotel.

I cannot find her! Am racked with rheumatic pains sitting in this big, empty, solitary, hollow, reverberating, damp, desolate, deserted cathedral hour after hour. On to Peterborough this evening.

_She_

Peterborough, _June 18_.

He is not here. The cathedral, even the celebrated west front, seems to me somewhat overrated. Catherine of Aragon (or one of those Henry the Eighth wives) is buried here, also Mary Queen of Scots; but I am tired of looking at graves, viciously tired, too, of writing in this trumpery note-book. We move on this afternoon.

_He_

Peterborough, _June 19_.

A few more days of this modern Love Chase will unfit me for professional work. Tried to draw the roof of the choir, a good specimen of early Perp., and failed. Studied the itinerary again to see if it had any unsuspected suggestions in cipher. No go! York and Durham were double-starred by the Aunt Celia's curate as places for long stops.

Perhaps we shall meet again there.

Lincoln, _June 22_, The Black Boy Inn.

I am stopping at a beastly little hole, which has the one merit of being opposite Miss Schuyler's lodgings, for I have found her at last. My sketch-book 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 be something like this:

1. Sketch of a footstool and desk where I first saw Miss Schuyler kneeling.

2. Sketch of a carved oak chair, Miss Schuyler sitting in it.

3. 'Angel choir.' Heads of Miss Schuyler introduced into the carving.

4. Altar screen. A row of full-length Miss Schuylers holding lilies.

5. Tomb of a bishop, where I tied Miss Schuyler's shoe.

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

7. Sketch of the shoe, the shoe-lace worn out with much tying.

8. Sketch of the blessed verger who called her 'Madam' when we were walking together.

9. Sketch of her blush when he did it; the prettiest thing in the world.

10. Sketch of J. Q. Copley contemplating the ruins of his heart.

'How are the mighty fallen!'

_She_

Lincoln, _June 23_, At Miss Smallpage's, Castle Garden.

This is one of the charmingest towns we have visited, and I am so glad Aunt Celia has a letter to the Canon in residence, because it may keep her contented.

We walked up Steep Hill this morning to see the Jews' house, but long before we reached it I had seen Mr. Copley sitting on a camp-stool, with his easel in front of him. Wonderful to relate, Aunt Celia recognised him, and was most cordial in her greeting. As for me, I was never so embarra.s.sed in my life. I felt as if he knew that I had expected to see him in London and Ely and Peterborough, though, of course, he _couldn't_ know it, even if he looked for, and missed, me in those three dreary and over-estimated places. He had made a most beautiful drawing of the Jews'

House, and completed his conquest of Aunt Celia by presenting it to her.

I should like to know when my turn is coming; but, anyway, she asked him to luncheon, and he came, and we had such a cosy, homelike meal together. He is even nicer than he looks, which is saying a good deal more than I should, even to a locked book. Aunt Celia dozed a little after luncheon, and Mr. Copley almost talked in whispers, he was so afraid of disturbing her nap. It is just in these trifling things that one can tell a true man--courtesy to elderly people and consideration for their weaknesses. He 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 well-brought-up 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 State lunatic asylum.