home before the winter, so we hardened our hearts and drove away. The rain did not actually come down, but we noticed great banks of threatening gray storm-clouds in serried ranks gathered on the low horizon that foreboded ill, with an advance guard of vast detached masses of aqueous vapours, wind-woven into fantastic forms. The sky-scape at any rate was interesting. "It looks stormy," exclaimed we, to a man, in response to a polite "Good-morning" he bade us as we passed him by. "It do look so," replied he, "but we won't get any wet worth speaking of whilst this wind keeps up." This was reassuring. We have generally found country folk more reliable about the immediate future of the weather than the falling or rising of the barometer, for local conditions are often an important factor in the case and modify the barometer's forecast.
About a mile on our way we noticed the slight remains of the once famous and wealthy Cistercian Abbey of Kirkstead. These consist simply of a tall fragment of the transept and some walling, standing alone in the midst of a wide grass field. Beyond this, in an adjoining meadow, we espied a most beautiful little Early English chapel, perfectly pure in style. This was enclosed in a neglected-looking graveyard, the rusty gates of which were carefully locked, so that we were, perforce, obliged to climb over them to inspect the building, which was also carefully locked up, and, I regret to add, very fast going to irretrievable decay for the want of a little timely repair. Why, I wonder, is such a rare architectural gem as this allowed to go thus the
