of
national life."

Bamborough village, close by, was once the royal city of Bernicia, and
the "Laidly Worm" was there to give it fame, even if there had never
been a Grizel Cochrane or Grace Darling; but the history of the hamlet
that once was great, and the castle that will always be great, are
virtually one. I shall bring you Besant's "Dorothy Foster," and lots of
fascinating photographs which our hostess has given me. (I don't think I
need leave them for Ellaline, as she wouldn't care.) But you know the
story of the Laidly Worm, because Dad used to tell it to me when I was
small. The wicked stepmother who turned her beautiful stepdaughter into
the fearsome Worm used to live at the bottom of a deep, deep well that
opens in the stone floor of the castle keep; and there, in the
rock-depths, a hundred and fifty feet below, she still lurks, in the
form of a gigantic toad. I have been allowed to peep down, and I'm sure
I caught the jewelled sparkle of her wicked eye in the gloom. But even
if she'd turned me into a Laidly Worm, I couldn't be more repulsive than
I probably am at present to Sir Lionel; besides, I could crawl away into
a neighbouring cave with modern improvements, and console myself with a
good cry--which I can't do now, for fear of getting a red nose. I should
hate that, because Mrs. Senter's nose is so magnolia-white, and the
background of a magnificent feudal castle sets off her golden hair and
brown eyes so passing well.

[Illustration: "_Bamborough surpasses all Northumbrian castles_"]

There might be volumes of history, as well as romances, written about
Bamborough Castle--as Sir Walter Scott, and Harrison Ainsworth, and Sir
Walter Besant knew. Why, the thrill of unwritten stories and untold
legends is in the air! From the moment I passed through the jaws of
outer and inner gateways, I seemed to hear whispers from lips that had
laughed or cursed in the days of barbaric grandeur, when Bamborough was
the king of all Northumbrian castles. There are queer echoes everywhere,
in the vast rooms whose outer walls are twelve feet thick; but more
deliciously "creepy" than any other place is the keep, I think--even
more thrilling than the dungeons. Yet the castle, as it is now, is far
from gloomy, I can tell you. Not only are there banqueting-halls and
ball-rooms, and drawing-rooms and vast galleries which royalties might
covet, but there are quantities of charming bedrooms, gay and bright
enough for debutante