The Great Park, adjoining Windsor Castle, contains 18,000 acres. Within it is located Frogmore House, another royal residence, near which is the Royal Mausoleum. Everyone must have been impressed, at some time or other, with the faithfulness of the late queen to the memory of the Prince Consort. Throughout her long widowhood, she seems to have lived in the presence of his death. The monuments, that perpetuate his name, unless one looks at their artistic value, seem an extravagant waste of money. Certainly he rendered no conspicuous service to the State, so that we are justified in regarding these costly memorials as tributes of the loyal and undying love which the Queen cherished for her husband. Royal marriages, that are so frequently the result of political exigencies, are not always happy. Perhaps it would not be wide of the mark to say, are not often happy. All the greater reason, therefore, that this one, which was conspicuously congenial, should iterate its testimony. On the fourteenth of December, the anniversary of the Prince’s death, the Dean of Windsor regularly held a memorial service at the mausoleum, during the lifetime of the Queen. Those who had obtained tickets were admitted to the mausoleum after the service, but this was the only date in the year when it might be seen. The foundation stone of the structure was laid by the Queen, herself, and contains the following words: “His mourning widow, the queen, directed all that is mortal of Prince Albert, to be placed in this sepulchre, A. D. 1862. Farewell, well-beloved: Here at last I will rest with thee; with thee, in Christ, I will rise again.” Windsor Castle has had a long and varied history; it has been associated closely with many of the kings of England and with stirring scenes of English history, but for many, many years to come, its mention will call to memory the good and universally beloved woman—Victoria. THE FINEST HOTEL. A SKETCH OF LIFE IN THE MOUNTAINS OF KENTUCKY. By A. Lytle Peterman. “Boys, is there a hotel in this place?” the traveler asked of two youngsters lounging near, as he stood, suit-case in hand, on the cinder path by the track, looking inquiringly about him, while the train pulled off down the road. “What place?” putting answer and inquiry into one. It aroused their interest and surprise to hear Montvale called a “place.” “This village, or hamlet, or station, or whatever you call it—is there a hotel hereabout?” he replied, a little impatient and determined to make himself understood. “A hotel? Yes, _sir_,” answered the larger of the boys. “Then I’ll thank you and pay you to show me to it,” the stranger said, as he brightened up, throwing off the lost look that had struck his face at the same moment his foot had struck the cinders, when he stepped from the train.