proving that a church was there before the Conquest. A bit of history told in stone. The hoary fane suggested an interesting interior, but we found the doors to be carefully locked, and we felt in no humour to go a-clerk-hunting; the day was too temptingly fine to waste any of it in that tiresome sport. Just beyond the village we observed a walled-in park, the gateway piers of which were surmounted by two very grotesque figures.
Branston would have done credit to Devonshire, that county of picturesque villages; it was of the kind that ladies love to term "sweetly pretty." Were Branston only in Devonshire, near some tourist centres that there abound, I venture to say it would be much painted, photographed, and written about in a laudatory manner, and possibly also have its praises sung of by poets; but being only in Lincolnshire, out of the traveller's beat, its charms are reserved for the favoured few whom chance may bring that way.
Then driving on through a lovely, lonely country, with fine views to our left, over a well-wooded land that faded away into a mystery of low blue hills, we came in time to four cross-roads, where we found a lady all alone standing beside her tricycle looking hot, tired, and dusty. We saw no guide-post here, just where one would have been most acceptably useful, for we felt doubtful as to our way, our map not being so clear as we could wish—a provoking feature about maps in general, and the one we had in particular; so, doffing our cap most politely, we asked the lady if she would kindly direct us. "Now
