in it, right over the animal's ears. He used to be very fond of going into the fields all alone, and lying on his back on the grass smoking a pipe. He was very reserved, and did not talk to people much; and that's about all I know or have heard about him. You see, sir, 'a prophet hath no honour in his own country,' that's Scripture, so it must be true." We nodded assent.
IN STRANGE QUARTERS Then Mr. Baker showed us Sir Ingram Hopton's old home in the main street, and going down a narrow lane pointed out some bits of rough and ruined masonry, now built into walls and cottages; these crumbling bits of masonry, we were told, formed portions of the old castle. I must, however, confess that when castles come to this state of decay, they fail to arouse my sympathies, for their history in stone is over, and all their picturesqueness gone. After this we came to Mr. Baker's little sweetmeat-shop, situated in a by-street; we were ushered through the shop into a tiny and somewhat stuffy sitting-room. Here we were bidden to take a chair, and imagine ourselves at home; we did the former, the latter was beyond our power, the surroundings were so unfamiliar! Then Mr. Baker produced a parcel of letters written direct to him from sundry more or less notable people; three of these, we observed, to our surprise, were stamped at the top with the well-known name of an English royal palace. They were all addressed to "Dear Mr. Baker," and bore the signature below of a royal personage! As we looked round the tiny humble parlour at the back of the sweetmeat-shop imme-
