The hospital of Saint Croix was even then more than three hundred years old, having been erected in 1136 by Bishop Henry de Blois, of whom previous mention has been made. It was subsequently enlarged by Cardinal Beaufort, and is still, we are happy to say, in an admirable state of preservation. Here the hospitality of monkish times is still practised on a small scale. Like many other similar institutions in Winchester and elsewhere, Saint Croix was deprived of its rents and revenues by Henry VIII., but sufficient was fortunately saved from the spoiler’s grasp to preserve it from utter extinction. New life was communicated to the decaying old hospital by Mary, and it was the thought of its unexpected revival that gave it special interest in the eyes of the young man who now gazed upon it. Contrasting its present condition with the past, he rejoiced that a fabric so lovely, and designed for such benevolent purposes, should have escaped destruction. After indulging in these reflections for a brief space, he walked on, bestowing a glance as he crossed the wooden bridge over the Itchen at the trout shooting through the clear stream. He had now reached the foot of Saint Catherine’s Hill, whither, apparently, he was bound, and disdaining to take the easy but circuitous path conducting to the little chapel, he speeded up the steepest part of the acclivity, across the Danish entrenchment, and did not halt for a moment till he gained the summit of the hill. He then turned to enjoy the splendid prospect commanded from the spot of the ancient city and its environs, which we have already endeavoured to bring before the reader. While he was thus occupied, the door of the little chapel was opened by a priest of venerable and benevolent aspect, who stepped towards him, bade him a kindly good morrow, and bestowed a benison upon him. “What brings Master Osbert Clinton to Saint Catherine’s Hill so early?” inquired the old priest. “Nothing more than to hear matins in your chapel, good Father Jerome,” replied Osbert. “I trust I am in time.” “You are in ample time, my son,” replied the old priest, smiling. “Matins have not yet been said, and will not commence for half an hour. Except myself, you are the first on Saint Catherine’s Hill this blessed morning. Indeed, I marvel to see you here so soon. That a young gallant like Master Osbert Clinton, engaged in all the gaieties of court, should have come to this little chapel to pray at so early an hour, argues a strength of devotion for which, I own, I scarcely give him credit.” “I will not attempt to deceive you, good father,” returned Osbert. “It is not merely the desire to pray within your chapel that has brought me here, but the hope of meeting a fair maiden——” “Dare you make such an avowal to me, young Sir?” interrupted Father Jerome, in a tone of stern rebuke.