The workman’s family was still waiting, and Maude handed the child a shilling as she went out. She was so happy herself that she wanted every one else to be happy also. The people turned to look at her as she passed. With the slight flush upon her cheeks and the light in her eyes, she seemed the personification of youth, and life, and love. One tall old gentleman started as he looked, and watched her with a rapt face until she disappeared. Some cheek had flushed and some eye had brightened at his words once, and sweet old days had for an instant lived again. ‘Shall we have a cab?’ ‘O Frank, we must learn to be economical. Let us walk.’ ‘I can’t and won’t be economical to-day.’ ‘There now! See what a bad influence I have upon you.’ ‘Most demoralising! But we have not settled yet where we are to go to.’ ‘What _does_ it matter, if we are together?’ ‘There is a good match at the Oval, the Australians against Surrey. Would you care to see that?’ ‘Yes, dear, if you would.’ ‘And there are matinées at all the theatres.’ ‘You would rather be in the open air.’ ‘All I want is that you should enjoy yourself.’ ‘Never fear. I shall do that.’ ‘Well, then, first of all I vote that we go and have some lunch.’ They started across the station yard, and passed the beautiful old stone cross. Among the hansoms and the four-wheelers, the hurrying travellers, and the lounging cabmen, there rose that lovely reconstruction of mediævalism, the pious memorial of a great Plantagenet king to his beloved wife. ‘Six hundred years ago,’ said Frank, as they paused and looked up, ‘that old stone cross was completed, with heralds and armoured knights around it to honour her whose memory was honoured by the king. Now the corduroyed porters stand where the knights stood, and the engines whistle where the heralds trumpeted, but the old cross is the same as ever in the same old place. It is a little thing of that sort which makes one realise the unbroken history of our country.’ Maude insisted upon hearing about Queen Eleanor, and Frank imparted the little that he knew as they walked out into the crowded Strand. ‘She was Edward the First’s wife, and a splendid woman. It was she, you remember, who sucked the wound when he was stabbed with a poisoned dagger. She died somewhere in the north, and he had the body carried south to bury it in Westminster Abbey. Wherever it rested for a night he built a cross, and so you have a line of crosses all down England to show where that sad journey was broken.’ They had turned down Whitehall, and passed the big cuirassiers upon their black chargers at the gate of the Horse Guards. Frank pointed to one of the windows of the old banqueting-hall. ‘You’ve seen a memorial of a queen of England,’ said he. ‘That window is the memorial of a king.’ ‘Why so, Frank?’