over myself to repress any relapse into
familiarity."

"I am very sorry for all this," said I, taking
her hand in mine, and employing my most
insinuating of manners towards her. "As it is
more than doubtful that I shall ever resume
the station that once pertained to me; as, in
fact, it may be my fortune to occupy for the rest
of life an humble and lowly condition, my
ambition would have been to draw towards me
in that modest station such sympathies and
affections as might attach to one so circumstanced.
My plan was to assume an obscure
name, seek out some unfrequented spot, and
there, with the love of one—one only—solve the
great problem, whether happiness is not as
much the denizen of the thatched cottage as of
the gilded palace. The first requirement of my
scheme was that my secret should be in my own
keeping. One can steel his own heart against
vain regrets and longings; but one cannot secure
himself against the influence of those
sympathies which come from without, the unwise
promptings of zealous followers, the hopes and
wishes of those who read your submission as
mere apathy."

I paused and sighed; she sighed too, and
there was a silence between us.

"Must she not feel very happy and very
proud," thought I, " to be sitting there on the
same bench with a prince, her hand in his, and
he pouring out all his confidence in her ear?
I cannot fancy a situation more full of
interest."

"After all, sir," said she, calmly, " remember
that Mrs. Keats alone knows your secret. / have
not the vaguest suspicion of it."

"And yet," said I, tenderly, " it is to you I
would confide it; it is in your keeping I would
wish to leave it; it is from you I would ask
counsel as to my future."

"Surely, sir, it is not to such inexperience
as mine you would address yourself in a
difficulty?"

"The plan I would carry out demands none
of that crafty argument called ' knowing the
world.' All that acquaintance with the by-play
of life, its conventionalities and exactions,
would be sadly out of place in an Alpine village,
or a Tyrolese Dorf, where I mean to pitch my
tent. Do you not think that your interest might
be persuaded to track me so far?"

"Oh, sir, I shall never cease to follow your
steps with the deepest anxiety."

"Would it not be possible for me to secure a
lease of that sympathy?"

"Can you tell me what o'clock it is, sir?"
said she, very gravely.

"Yes," said I, rather put out by so sudden
a diversion; "it is a few minutes after
nine."

"Pray excuse my leaving you, sir, but Mrs.
Keats takes her tea at nine, and will expect me."
And, with a very respectful curtsey, she withdrew,
before I could recover from my astonishment
at this abrupt departure.

"I trust that my royal highness said nothing
indiscreet," muttered I to myself, "though,
upon my life, this hasty exit would seem to
imply it."

STONE FOR BUILDING.

BUILDING-STONES are obtained more or less
from every geological formation known. Granite
was used by the Egyptian, alabaster by the
Assyrian, marble by the Greek, and sandstones
and limestones by the Romans and mediæval
and modern nations. Each nation has been
more or less dependent on the native rock of
the district for building-stone, and with material
so ponderable this must ever remain one of the
conditions of using stone largely for building
purposes. Where granite is found, and has
been used, or is used largely, the buildings
will have a rude and massive grandeur: where
marble abounds, we may have elegance and
refined beauty, as in Greece; where the more
common sandstones and limestones form the
superficial crust of a country, buildings should
be modified in form and detail to suit such
materials. The great cost of working granite
into the most simple forms, will ever prevent
its use on a large scale by any nation, for
domestic, as also even for municipal or even for
national masonry. The exquisite marbles of
Greece could only be used on Greek soil for
temples and public buildings in general, and the
variegated marbles of Italy for the beautiful
mediæval and renaissance churches, campaniles,
palaces, and towers.

It has been said that the stone produced in
any district, harmonises best with such district;
buildings erected of native stone are more in
keeping with the surrounding landscape. The
architect, as artist, has better arranged his
palette.

Every building-stone is composed of grains
and crystals, cemented and bound together by a
natural process of chemistry. The hardest and
most enduring rocks are compounds, which
nature has formed, and which nature's elements
can disintegrate again to mouldering waste. The
question of destruction is one of time. But
time may be lengthened or may be shortened by
many causes.

When rocks are exposed to the actions of
sunlight, wet, frost, and wind, the disintegrating
process sets in with greater or less rapidity,
according to the mechanical force, and the
chemical character of the ingredients acting and
acted upon. Some rocks, apparently sound
when newly quarried, soon decay; or portions of
the beds moulder and scale off, leaving the more
enduring portions comparatively unchanged. In
olden times, stones, when quarried, may have lain
longer exposed to the action of the weather, before
use; and it must have taken time to remove
such stone long distances to build our early Norman
castles, churches, &c.; as, also, our mediæval
churches, cathedrals, abbeys, and country mansions.
In this time, most of the soft or defective
beds of stone would have given indications of decay,
and the builders would reject them. Can our