"May 5th: I scarcely know any place more impressing to a historian than the Tower of London. The past of England, of blood and horror, remains there as its last prisoner. The twelve towers which protect the inner court and are kissed by the morning mist, resemble a gathering of black penitents who accompany a corpse. They shelter the crimes of Edward IV, Richard III, Henry VIII, of Mary Tudor. They have nothing with which to reproach themselves. Each has its tragic memories. "I had special permission to visit Saint Peter ad Vincula and the neighboring cemetery, of which Macaulay said that there was not a place in the world more steeped in sorrow, because the horror of death is here intensified by the memories of infinite miseries and appalling destinies. In the church, which is too well restored, are interred Anne Boleyn, Catherine Howard and poor Lady Jane Grey who was beheaded at seventeen, and whose brief youth was constantly threatened with the scaffold. They showed us the exact spot where all three were executed. "This visit gave me a kind of historical intoxication. With exaltation I explained to my companion the dismal succession of the houses of York and the Tudors. Suddenly fearing ridicule, I interrupted myself: "'I am boring you, no doubt?' "And I looked at her. I still see her as I then saw her: her face raised to mine; and her narrow eyes, only half open, increasing their light by contracting, like shutters, which, half-closed, give an exact shape to every sunbeam which penetrates, despite all obstacles. She waited a second or two before replying laughingly. "'I was about to weep over Jane Grey. It is a pity. The charm is broken.' "As we left the Tower, we found a desert--compared to the crowded city which we had crossed in going there. The contrast was startling. She explained to me: "'It is Saturday and past twelve o'clock. All the banks, business houses, exchanges close at noon to-day. The weekly day of rest is thirty-six hours. The Englishman applies himself seriously to his business, devotes himself to it, and then earns his peace of mind.' "'You like English life?' I asked. "With what pride she replied: "'I am free here--' "I dared not question her any further. While we were lunching in the large dining-room at the hotel, she told me quite freely in a few words how she had gained her independence. An old friend of Saint Ismier days,--married in London, had recommended her to Miss Pearson. "'Miss Pearson?'