ich it is utterly impossible to appreciate at one visit.

"Haven't we time to walk in the gardens a little longer?" asked
Barbara, wistfully. To her, Nature was nearer and dearer than all the
wonders of art and history.

After a ramble through the bewitchingly lovely gardens,--going across
ancient drawbridges, spanning long-unused, grass-grown moats; under
little postern-gates; into rustic grottoes--they at last came to the
conservatory, in which is preserved the "Warwick Vase." This is made
of white marble, carved with various devices.

"It has a curious history," answered Mrs. Pitt, in reply to the
children's questions. "In 1770, some workmen found it at the bottom of
a small lake which is about sixteen miles from Rome. Of course, it is
not possible to determine with any certainty how it came to be there,
but as Hadrian's Villa was in A.D. 546 occupied by a king of the
Goths, an enemy who was then laying siege to Rome, it has been thought
that the vase was cast into the lake, to save it from the hands of the
invaders. The second Earl of Warwick was its purchaser."

Slowly and unwillingly they wended their way back through the gardens,
to the central court of the castle, and then out under the old
gateway.

"My!" cried John, "it must have taken heaps of soldiers to defend a
place like this in the Middle Ages! I wish I'd been here when it was
just plumb full of great warriors,--when the moat had water in it, the
drawbridge worked, and sentinels called out to you for the password as
you came near the gate. I suppose they could peep out at you from
those little windows up high, too." John looked longingly back, as
they walked away.

"Oh, yes!" continued Mrs. Pitt, in tones which made the girls shudder.
"From those windows they rained shot down upon the enemy. And there
are little slits in the wall from which men poured boiling metal or
tar upon those besieging the castle. Upon the roof of Guy's Tower
there, it is thought that a huge machine used to stand,--a machine for
slinging down great stones. Oh, yes; there were dungeons here,
too,--deep, dark, damp, and evil-smelling dungeons, into which many
prisoners were thrown. Why, it was from here that Piers Gaveston, the
unfortunate favorite courtier of Edward II, was taken out and executed
upon a hill close by. Underneath the fine halls where splendid
banquets were carried on, out of sight and reach of the fair gardens
and lawns, there were always poor prisoners who w