additions to the abbey, for the making of
which were demolished the old entrance gate,
and a vast building of Norman architecture that
went by the name of Queen Matilda's Palace.
"The old order passeth, making way for new;"
but the new, if more useful than the old, is
certainly much less beautiful to the eye that
cherishes carven stone and wood above humanity.
Ruin is ruin in Caen, and not well kept; and
many think Vandalism is at its best when it
leaves it so, and suffers time and decay to do
their work.

OLD STORIES RE-TOLD.

THE RED BARN.

ON Friday, the 18th of May, 1827, Maria
Marten, the daughter of a mole-catcher living
at Polstead, a small retired village in the county
of Suffolk, prepared to set out to drive to
Ipswich, twelve miles distant, with her lover, a
farmer's son, named Corder, who, after many
delays and subterfuges, had agreed to marry
her. The girl, pretty and thoughtless, had
not maintained a very good character in the
place.

The marriage had been fixed for the Monday,
but Stoke Fair had detained Corder on that day;
and on Thursday his brother James had been
taken dangerously ill. Such, at least, were the
excuses that Corder offered Maria Marten for
not keeping his promise. The girl and her
mother were up-stairs in their cottage when
Corder came on the Friday, and abruptly
proposed to instantly start for Ipswich, as he had
got the licence all ready.

"Come, Maria," he said, " make haste; I
am going."

The girl looked round surprised at the sudden
decision and peremptory tone, and replied:

"How can I go at this time of the day, without
anybody seeing me?"

But Corder was in no mood for waiting, and
he answered moodily:

"Never mind, you have been disappointed
many times, and shan't be again; we will go
now."

"How am I to go, William?" was the girl's
next question.

"You can go up," he said, "to the Red
Barn, and stop till I come to you with my horse
and gig."

The girl was still full of objections. The
marriage was to be a clandestine one, and yet her
lover was going to drive her to Ipswich in open
daylight.

"I'm not ready," she said; "and how am I
to order my things?"

He was ready to answer every objection. " I
will take the things," he said, " in a bag, and
carry them up to the barn, and then I'll come
back and walk with you."

She still disliked the suddenness of the
departure.

"There are none of my workmen about," he
said, "in the fields or near the barn, and I am
sure the coast is quite clear."

How carefully he had foreseen every difficulty!
how prompt he was to remove every lingering
obstacle to their immediate marriage! The old
father and mother were not the sort of people to
oppose the will of their master, their daughter's
rich lover. They made no objection. Maria
then put up her things — a black silk gown, black
silk stockings, a Leghorn hat, and some other
small necessaries, all tucked into a wicker
basket and a large black velvet reticule. There
had been, probably, some previous arrangement
between the lovers; for Maria now produced
from some secret nook a bundle of men's
clothes. These she was to put on while
Corder was carrying the basket and reticule in
a brown holland bag to the Red Barn. Corder
then left with the bag, and Maria, crying all
the time, proceeded to put on her disguise—
blue trousers, a striped waistcoat, and brown
coat. She wore a man's hat over her three
large hair-combs, and a red and yellow silk
handkerchief to muffle her chin and long
earrings. She had in her hand a large green cotton
umbrella, with a bone handle. While Maria was
still dressing, stopping every now and then to
cry at the suddenness of her departure, Corder
returned, carrying a gun. Maria's mother
asked if it was charged, and on being told that
it was, she said:

"Then I'll move it away, on account of the
child."

This was Corder's child, for whom he had
just paid the weekly allowance. Corder then
sat down by the fire, and drawing out a pair of
pistols, snapped them several times. (It was
not so unusual to go armed in 1827 as it is now.)
He then looked up, and said to Mrs. Marten:

"Mrs. Marten, the reason I go to Ipswich
to-day is because John Balaam, the constable,
came into the stable to me this morning, and
told me that he had got a letter from Mr. Whitmore,
from London. In this letter there was
a warrant to have Maria taken up and
prosecuted for our illegitimate child."

"Oh, William!" the poor mother answered,
reproachfully, " if you had but married Maria
before the child was born, all this would have
been settled."

"Mrs. Marten," was the conciliatory reply,
"don't make yourself at all uneasy, for I'm
going to Ipswich to-day to get a licence to be
married to-morrow morning."

On the Sunday before, he had told Maria's
mother that he already had the licence, but had
been obliged to send it to London to a friend.

The mother was still anxious.

"William," she asked, " what will you do
if she can't be married?"

"She shall be my lawful wife before I return
home."

The mother repeated:

"But if you can't be married?"

Corder replied:

"Then I'll get her a place somewhere till
such time as we can be married."

Just then Maria came down, still anxious
and crying. Corder took a paper of ham out