ng behind the motor-veil
of the future!

Mother, dear, when I shut my eyes to-night, I see Barrows, billowing
prehistorically along the horizon, and I see Stonehenge, black against a
red sunset, and silver in the moonlight. Also, I have begun to _think_
architecturally, I find, through seeing so much architecture, and trying
to talk about it intelligently, as Mrs. Senter contrives to do. (I
believe she fags it up at night, with a wet towel over her hair wavers!)

Do you know what it is to think architecturally? Well, for me (not
apropos of Mrs. S. at all), a made-up woman is "well restored," or
"repaired." An intellectual-looking man, with a fine head, has Norman
bumps and Gothic ears. A puppy with big feet is an early Perp., with
Norman foundations, and so on. It gives a new interest to life and the
creatures we meet. Emily is late Georgian, with Victorian elevations.

I hated leaving Winchester; but oh, those Barrows we saw, when we were
coming away! They made most antique things seem as new as a china cup
with "For a Good Girl" outlined on it in gold letters. So many
stupendous events have scattered themselves along this road of ours, as
the centuries rolled, that it makes the brain reel, trying to gather
them up, and sort them into some kind of sequence. Often I wish I could
sit and admire calmly, as Mrs. Senter can, and not get boiling with
excitement over the past. But one is so uncomfortably intelligent, one
can't stop thinking, thinking every minute. Every tiny thing I see has
its little "thought sting," ready like a mosquito; and a fancy that has
lately stabbed me is the striking resemblance between English scenery,
or its features, and English character. The best bits in both are shy of
showing themselves, and never flaunt. They are so reserved that to find
them out you must search. All the loveliest nooks in English country and
in English souls are hidden from strangers. Why, the very cottages try
to hide under veils of clematis and roses, as the cottage children hide
their thoughts behind long eyelashes.

We came to Salisbury by way of Romsey, and got out to see the splendid
old church which almost ranks with Winchester Cathedral as a monument of
England. And Romsey Abbey, too, very beautiful, even thrilling; still
more ancient Hursley, with its earthworks, about which, for once, Sir
Lionel and Dick Burden were congenial. Of course, men who have been
soldiers like Sir Lionel, or tried to be soldiers and c