e's fine eyes were lifted to him in inquiry; meeting them, he
smiled, and went on.

'I must explain. Where shall I begin? Suppose, for instance, we take
our stand here at Whitehall. We are looking at the Banqueting House of
the Palace, built by Inigo Jones for James I. The other buildings of
the palace, wide and splendid as they were, have mostly perished. This
stands yet. I need not tell you the thoughts that come up as we look at
it.'

'Charles I was executed there, I know. What else?'

'There is a whole swarm of memories, and a whole crowd of images,
belonging to the palace of which this was a part. Before the time you
speak of, there was Cardinal Wolsey'--

'Oh, Wolsey! I remember.'

'His outrageous luxury and pomp of living, and his disgrace. Then comes
Henry VIII., and Anne Boleyn, and their marriage; Henry's splendours,
and his death. All that was here. In those days the buildings of
Whitehall were very extensive, and they were further enlarged
afterwards. Here Elizabeth held her court, and here she lay in state
after death. James I comes next; he built the Banqueting House. And in
his son's time, the royal magnificence displayed at Whitehall was
incomparable. All the gaieties and splendours and luxury of living that
then were possible, were known here. And here was the scaffold where he
died. The next figure is Cromwell's.'

'Leave him out!' said Mrs. Dallas, with a sort of groan of impatience.

'What shall I do with the next following, mamma? That is Charles II.'

'He had a right there at least.'

'He abused it.'

'At least he was a king, and a gentleman.'

'If I could show you Whitehall as it was in his day, mother, I think
you would not want to look long. But I shall not try. We will go on to
Charing Cross. The old palace extended once nearly so far. Here is the
place.' He pointed to a certain spot on the map.

'What is there now?' asked Betty.

'Not the old Cross. That is gone; but, of course, I cannot stand there
without in thought going back to Edward I. and his queen. In its place
is a brazen statue of Charles I. And in fact, when I stand there the
winds seem to sweep down upon me from many a mountain peak of history.
Edward and his rugged greatness, and Charles and his weak folly; and
the Protectorate, and the Restoration. For here, where the statue
stands, stood once the gallows where Harrison and his companions were
executed, when "the king had his own again." Sometimes I can hardly see