oriel, after all. And what are you going to do
about that grand carved old screen? I have
been told it is past repairing, and cannot
possibly be put up again. I hope that's not true."

"I am happy to say that it is not," replied
the bishop, who was a very handsome man, and
much admired by the ladies of his diocese.
"I believe we shall be able to restore the worst
parts, and that it will keep its old place for the
next two or three centuries. About the east
window, I am less hopeful."

"Why so?" asked the heiress.

"I fear we cannot afford it."

"But how is that? I thought there was
large surplus fund in hand."

"There was; but we have found since then
that the spire is in a much worse state than we
had at first supposed; and to put it into
thorough repair will swallow up the whole of
our available money."

"Dear, dear, I'm so sorry!" said the heiress.
"You really want the stained window. One
misses the poetry of colour in Betchworth
Cathedral. How much would it cost?"

"More than we could hope to raise after the
liberal subscriptions already granted. A thousand
pounds."

"So large a sum? Ah, bishop, if I were one
of your flock, I should ask leave to put that
window in. However, if you like to open a
fresh list, you may put me down for two
hundred and fifty."

"My dear lady," said the prelate, " what can
I say in acknowledgment of such munificence?"

"Only, I beg, that you will try to get the
rest of the thousand as quickly as you can. But
here comes my partner."

And Miss Hatherton turned to Lord Castletowers,
who had found and captured Saxon, and
now stood with him beside her chair.

"Will you permit my friend Mr. Trefalden
the pleasure of dancing with you, Miss Hatherton?"
said he.

"I am delighted to make Mr. Trefalden's
acquaintance, and shall be most happy to dance
with him," replied the heiress, putting out her
hand as cordially and unceremoniously as if
Saxon were an old friend already. " What are
they doing in the hall now, Lord Castletowers?"

"Finishing a waltz—which will be followed
by a quadrille."

"Then we shall be just in time for the quadrille.
Won't you find us a pleasant vis-à-vis?"

"Will you accept me, if I can find a partner?"

"Delightful! Bishop, we must have another
moment's chat before the close of the evening."

Saying which, Miss Hatherton gathered her
ample skirts together, took Saxon's proffered
arm, and swept through the room and down
the wide old stairs in a very stately fashion.

CHAPTER XXX. THE HOSPITALLER'S GATE.

MR. KECKWITCH sat alone in a little private
parlour at the back of the bar of the
Hospitaller's Gate Tavern, with a bottle of brown
sherry and a couple of glasses before him,
waiting patiently. It was the evening of the very
day that his employer spent at Castletowers;
but he had not, therefore, left Chancery-lane
over five minutes the sooner, or neglected any
detail of his regular work. He had, on the
contrary, seen his fellow-clerks off the premises,
and locked up the office with even more than
his usual caution; for Abel Keckwitch was such
a highly respectable man, that he would not on
any account have taken advantage of Mr.
Trefalden's absence. He was waiting, as he had
just told the " young lady" who presided at the
bar in ringlets and pink ribbons, for a friend.
It was about eight o'clock in the evening, and
although the sky was as yet only grey with
dusk, the gas was already lighted; for the
Hospitaller's Gate was a queer, old-fashioned,
shut-in place, and the daylight always seemed
to make a point of getting away from it as early
as possible. There was, however, a bright fire
burning in the grate; and the bar beyond was
all alive with customers. The tops of the great
yellow puncheons and the lacquered gas-burners
were visible above the blind that veiled the half-
glass door of the parlour; and now and then
some privileged customer would peep over, stare
at the back of Mr. Keckwitch's head, and
disappear. But the clerk sat, all unconscious,
gazing placidly at the fire, and never once looked
round.

But for the brisk trade going on within the
precincts of the Gate itself, the place would have
been singularly quiet. The passers-by, just at
this hour, were few. Sometimes a cab drove
up; sometimes a cart rumbled past, but not
often. The great stream of traffic flowed close
by, along a neighbouring thoroughfare, and was
hoarsely audible, like the dull roar of a heavy
sea; but the Hospitaller's Gate stood apart,
grey, and hoary, and stored with strange old
memories, spanning the shabby by-street with
its battlemented arch, and echoing, in a ghastly
way, to the merriment below.

Standing in the very heart of the City, within
a few yards of Smithfield-market, and in the
midst of the over-crowded parish of Clerkenwell,
this rare old mediæval fragment was scarcely
known, even by name, to the majority of
Londoners. To the Smithfield drover, the
student of Bartholomew's, the compositors of
Tallis's press, and the watchmaking population
in general, it was a familiar spot. Archæologists
knew of its whereabouts, and held occasional
meetings in the oak room over the gateway,
where they talked learnedly of Jorden Briset,
the patriarch Heraclius, Thomas Docwrey, Stow,
and King Harry the Eighth; and oftentimes
moistened their dry discussions with rare old
port from cellars that had once held good store
of malmsey and sack for the pious knights' own
drinking. Literary men remembered it as the
cradle of the Gentleman's Magazine, and as the
place where Samuel Johnson, in his rags and his
pride, ate his dinner behind a screen, like a dog
fed from his master's table. But these were
pretty nearly all who knew or cared about
the Hospitaller's Gate. Hundreds of intelligent
Londoners passed within fifty yards of it every