Now it fortunately so happened that the night before at Horncastle we had met a Lincolnshire clergyman who took much interest in our journey, past and to come; and, thoughtful-minded, hearing that we proposed to explore Tennyson's country, and knowing that we were total strangers in the land, most kindly offered us introductions to the owners of one or two interesting houses on our way. Somersby Grange, we found, was one of these houses, therefore when we saw the house we felt how fortune favoured us. So, armed with our introduction we boldly made our way to the front door and were made welcome, the lady of the house herself good-naturedly volunteering to show us over. Somehow it seemed on our tour, as I believe I have remarked of a former one, that whenever we met a stranger there we found a friend, and oftentimes, as in this instance, a most kind friend too. This making of friends on the way is one of the special delights of desultory travel by road.
Within, Somersby Grange had quite a cheerful aspect that wholly belied its exterior gloom,—a cheerfulness that we almost resented, for with it all mystery vanished, and the air of romance seemed to fade away. The front door opened directly into a well-lighted panelled hall with a groined ceiling above. The interior was not so interesting as we expected—but then we expected so much. The most notable objects here were the cellars, of which there are a number all below the ground level, so naturally dark and dismal; these tradition asserts to have formerly been dungeons. Some of them have
