Spalding—"Ye Olde White Horse Inne"—An ancient hall and quaint garden—Epitaph-hunting—A signboard joke—Across the Fens—A strange world—Storm and sunshine—An awkward predicament—Brown—Birthplace of Hereward the Wake—A medieval railway station!—Tombstone verses.
We determined that we would devote the next morning to leisurely exploring Spalding, armed with sketch-book and camera, for the ancient town promised, from the glance we had of it whilst driving in, to provide plenty of picturesque and quaint material for both pencil and lens.
We had not to search long for a subject, for in less than five minutes we came upon a tempting architectural bit in the shape of a past-time inn, with a thatched roof, high gables, and dormer windows, whose swinging signboard proclaimed it to be "Ye Olde White Horse Inne." It was a building full of a certain quiet character that was very pleasing—a home-like and unpretentious structure whose picturesqueness was the outcome of necessity, and all the more charming for its unconsciousness.
Then wandering by the waterside we chanced upon a beautiful and ancient house called Ayscough Hall, gray-gabled, time-toned, and weather-worn, with a great tranquil garden of the old-fashioned sort
