much
remembered by Eleanor till they reached Barton's Tower.

This was a ruin of a different character; one of the old strongholds of
the rough time when men lived by the might of hand. No delicate arches
and graceful mouldings had ever been here; all was, or had been, grim,
stern strength and massiveness. The strength was broken long ago; and
grace, in the shape of clustering ivy, had mantled so much of the harsh
outlines that their original impression was lost. It could be recalled
only by a little abstraction. Within the enclosure of the thick walls,
which in some places gave a sort of crypt-like shelter, the whole
rambling party was now collected.

"Shall we have a fire?" Mr. Carlisle had asked Eleanor, just before
they entered. And Eleanor could not find in her heart to deny that it
would be good, though not quite prepared to have it made to _her_
order. However, the word was given. Wood was brought, and presently a
roaring blaze went up within the old walls; not where the old chimney
used to be, for there were no traces of such a thing. The sun had not
shined bright enough to do away the mischief the shower had done; and
now the ladies gathered about the blaze, and declared it was very
comfortable. Eleanor sat down on a stone by the side of the fire,
willing to be less in the foreground for a little while; as well as to
dry her wet shoes. From there she had a view of the scene that would
have pleased a painter.

The blazing fire threw a warm light and colour of its own upon the dark
walls and on the various groups collected within them, and touched
mosses and ferns and greensward with its gypsy glare. The groups were
not all of one character. There was a light-hued gay company of muslins
and scarfs around the burning pile; in a corner a medley of servants
and baskets and hampers; and in another corner Eleanor watched Julia
and Mr. Rhys; the latter of whom was executing some adventurous
climbing, after a flower probably, or a fern, while Julia stood below
eagerly following his progress. Mr. Carlisle was all about. It was a
singularly pretty scene, and to Eleanor's eye it had the sharp painting
which is given by a little secret interest at work. That interest gave
particular relief to the figures of the two gentlemen whose names have
been mentioned; the other figures, the dark walls and ivy, the servants
and the preparing collation, were only a rich mosaic of background for
those two.

There was Mr. Powle, a st