Passing through another stretch of level Fenland, wide and free, we reached the pretty village of Anwick, where, as we drove through, we noticed a charming thatched cottage with big dormer windows in the roof, and walls so ivy-grown that we could not tell whether they were of stone, or flint, or brick,—a picture by the way. Here also we noticed three curious round buildings, each with a conical roof of thatch, from the apex of which rose a circular chimney. One of these did duty as a blacksmith's shop. After Anwick the country gradually lost its fen-like character, hedges took the place of dykes as fences, the streams were no longer embanked, the land became mildly undulating, and suddenly we found ourselves back again in "sleepy Sleaford." Here the gray-haired waiter recognised and welcomed us. While chatting with him as he laid our evening meal, he told us that he had come to the inn for a day, and had stayed on there for fifty years!
We left Sleaford early the next morning bound for Beckingham, and beyond to either Newark or Grantham. We went to Beckingham, as our antiquarian friend we had met at Horncastle had told us that the old hall there was full of the most beautiful and interesting art treasures, including some priceless tapestry. "I will write to the rector of the village," said he in the kindness of his heart; "he is a friend of mine, and I will tell him you are coming, and ask him to show you over the hall; you must not miss it. And if you go home through Grantham, as I expect you will, you really must
