ion, I want to snatch her up, wrap her in a veil, and
run off with her in my arms. Beastly, isn't it? I have no such feeling,
however, in connection with Mrs. Senter, although she is very striking,
and excites a good deal of attention wherever we go.

I haven't seen Emily so happy since we have been motoring as she is at
Wells, and it seems almost criminal to tear her away, though I fear I
shall have to do so to-morrow. She says that, except at home, she has
never felt such "an air of religious calm" as at Wells; and there's
something in the feeling which I can understand, though I must admit I
don't go about the world searching for religious calm.

Certainly one can't imagine a crime being committed at Wells, and a
wicked thought would be rather wickeder here than elsewhere. Not that
the Cathedral is to me alluringly beautiful (I believe it ranks high,
and is even exalted as the "best secular church" to be found the world
over, the west front being glorified as a masterpiece beyond all others
in England); at first sight it vaguely disappointed me. I am no expert
judge of architecture, and don't pretend to be; still, I dare to have my
likes and dislikes; and it was not until I'd walked round the cathedral
many times, stood and stared at it, and gone up heights to survey it
from different points of view, that I began to warm toward it mightily.
Now, I find it eminently noble, yet not so lovable as some which my
memory cherishes, some not perhaps as architecturally or artistically
perfect. But you know what individuality buildings have, especially
those which are vast and dominating; and Wells is unique. As the common
people say, it "wants knowing."

Emily, usually sparing of adjectives, pronounces the Lady Chapel "a
dream," and I don't think she exaggerates; but for myself, the things
least forgettable in the Cathedral will be the Chapter House Stairs and
the beautiful fourteenth century glass. The ascent of the staircase is
an exquisite experience, and, as Ellaline cried out in her joy, "it must
be like going up a snow mountain by moonlight." The old clock in the
transept, too, holds one hypnotized, waiting always to see what will
happen next. Peter Lightfoot, the Glastonbury monk, who made it in the
fourteenth century, must have had a lively imagination, and have loved
excitement--"something doing," as Americans say. Ellaline and I are
overcome with sympathy for one of four desperately fighting knights who
never gets