rfect--a gem of beauty.

We came to Glastonbury in the afternoon, having lunched at a nice old
coaching house in Bridgewater, and after pausing for a look at the
Abbot's kitchen, I drove straight to the George, which I had heard of as
being the Pilgrim's Inn of ancient times, and the best bit of domestic
architecture in the town. The idea was to have tea there--an indulgence
for which Emily clamoured, being half choked with chalky dust; but the
house was so singularly beautiful and interesting that it seemed a crime
not to sleep in it. The front is a gorgeous mass of carved panelling; in
the middle rises a four-centred gateway, and on the left is a marvel of
a bow window, with a bay for every story. We went up a newel stairway to
look at rooms, and one in which Henry VIII. slept a night fell to my
share--not because I was selfishly ready to take the best, however, for
there were several others more curious, if not more interesting.

Our quarters for the night selected, we went out sight-seeing, on foot,
first taking the Abbey and Chapel of the Blessed Virgin, corruptly known
as St. Joseph's. It's a good thing, Pat, that you didn't get your
youthful way, and annex Emily, because you have, or had, a "strong
weakness" for ruins, and she doesn't appreciate them in any form. The
difference between her expression and Ellaline's while gazing at what is
left of Glastonbury's glory was a study. Emily's bored, yet
conscientiously desiring to be interested; the girl's rapt, radiant.
And, indeed, these remnants of beauty are pathetically fair enough to
draw tears to such young eyes as hers. They are even more majestic in
ruin than they could have been in noblest prime, I think, because those
broken arches have the splendour of classic tragedy. They are like a
poem of which a few immortal lines are lost.

In the warm light of the August afternoon the old stones, pillars, and
arches of Glastonbury Abbey seemed to be carved in stained ivory, a bas
relief on lapis lazuli. We lingered until our pretty Mrs. Senter got the
look in her eyes of one who has stood too long in high-heeled boots, and
Emily asked plaintively whether we were not going to see the Glastonbury
Thorn. It appeared that she had promised to write her tame parson about
it, and send him a sprig for planting; and she was much disappointed
when she heard that the "original thorn," Joseph of Arimathea's
blossoming staff, had been destroyed centuries ago on Weary-All Hill,