it gave livelihood and security in dangerous times and bred a loyalty that now has largely passed away.

A great fellow in a blazing jacket had explained the hall but, pocketing his fee, he now consigned us to a woman servant for the softer domestic rooms above. And with this change we left the feudal age for the period of Elizabeth.

Nor do I see how anyone, although he be steeped in bookish history, can gain a picture of these spacious days if he is entirely ignorant of these Tudor houses. The past lives in these majestic rooms and galleries, with their portraits, their rugs and brocaded furniture, their Venetian mirrors and curtained beds, their trophies of gift and war and exploration. The cicerone spins her tale of ancient days. This is a painting by Van Dyke. It was in this bed, with silk new-made in a Flemish loom, that Elizabeth slept. Here is a portrait of Robert Dudley, who is given a bad name by Sir Walter Scott. And the past arises to the soft droning of her voice. In this chair the great queen sat with her satin slippers to the hearth. That embroidered screen kept the firelight from her face. That lacquered box held her colored silk.

And now as the night advances she gossips of familiar matters-how Babbington, whom she had trusted, was caught in treason—, of Walsingham and his suspicions against the Queen of Scots. Drake's ship, perhaps, lies at Deptford loading for its trip around the world. Or already there are rumors from Corunna that the great fleet gathers for its long-delayed attack. The talk may run to farthingales and the latest frippery of

dress-perhaps stockings made of silk which in England are a new creation. "Like these, dear friends," with the lifting of a petticoat to display an ankle. A poet, too, a common fellow of the Bank-what is his outlandish name?—has written such pretty rhymes in his play at Essex's marriage that half the court have learned them for their table talk. "In maiden meditation, fancy free. That is yourself, beyond a doubt, your majesty." "So?" the queen remarks "It is a smooth phrase. We must have the fellow fetch his lute to Hampton Court."

There is a sighing of wind in the winter chimney. Tapestries stir upon the wall. Brocades of musty wear regain their freshness. And the cicerone leads her

flock to another room.

Quiet days have fallen now on Penshurst. The galleries are closed except at the hour when visitors are shown about. The owner is a bachelor who keeps but a broken remnant of its servants. We saw him last night walking in the village street and he was dressed in common tweed without a feather or ribbon to link him up to braver days. Cattle graze upon his park where once swept a pageantry of silk. The mighty furniture hears now no gossip of the fall of favorites, and if any whisper fall across the windy night in these neglected rooms it is but an echo from an older world.

"That's checked off," said Beezer, who chafes in hard instruction. "Let's go back to lunch. I'm fed up with old Queen Liz."

I

JULIA FLORY.

And he skipped to show the perfection of his surgery

CHAPTER VI

TO THE ROAD AGAIN

T was the middle of the afternoon when we set

out for Tunbridge Wells. Our last night's rain

had cleared the windy sky, and white clouds, tired of sedentary living, ran before us on a holiday. "How's the blister?" I asked.

"All bandaged up," said Bill. "Hojotoho!" And he skipped to show the perfection of his surgery.

Near by Farnham we left the highroad for a path across the fields. In a grove on an upland slope a family had come for supper and as we passed there was a small commotion at the unpacking of the hampers and the spread of blankets on the ground. We were not so

close that we could discover whether cold fowl or mutton were handed out, but it was a touch of pleasant country life. One stout gentleman sat in such easy comfort with an expectant plate upon his knees that, except for a change of dress, it might have been Mr. Pickwick at Manor Farm.

"I wonder where Manor Farm was," said Bill. "It would be fun to find it."

"Off behind us to the north, not many miles from Rochester," I answered. "Do you remember how Mr. Winkle rode the tall horse?"

"Now, shiny Villiam,' quoted Bill, "give the gen'lm❜n the ribbons.""

We stopped a bit to watch the picnic.

"Look at the old fellow eating!" said Bill. “The women feeding him. I'll bet it's mutton."

Mutton and beef and bacon and sole,

A boiled potato, a sweet,

A kipper, string beans, a mug of beer!
This is all that Englishmen eat.

At Rusthall we came out on a highroad and were swept into a noise of traffic which was now at its worst on Saturday afternoon. Bill cried out at once “Oh, my soul!" and sat down hard for rest. But he was too stubborn to seek a lift in a public bus and presently advanced with a gait that seemed a compound of a broken arch, a blister, a tight shoe, senility and paralysis.

On a high common used for picnics we came in sight of Tunbridge Wells where we were to pass the night. Our hotel was the Swan, with a rear entrance from

a stone-paved court that is known as the Pantiles where there is a band stand, a row of shops for trinkets and a spring of healing waters now fallen out of fashion.

Young Mr. Warrington of Virginia came once to Tunbridge Wells in attendance on his wicked aunt to gain acquaintance with the world of fashion, its bad hours, high gambling and easy virtue. And here of a morning on the Pantiles he saw many famous menChesterfield, with star and ribbon; Johnson, who scarcely consented to touch his beaver in return to his lordship's greeting; Richardson, with Clarissa newly written, walking in a halo of female worship. Two hundred years ago Tunbridge Wells was of lofty fashion for wit and wealth and title, and a close rival of Bath. I have no doubt that many novelists preceded Thackeray in sending their heroes to Tunbridge to furnish out a spicy chapter; just as a writer of our day chooses Cannes or Aix-les-Bains if he fears that otherwise his plot grows dull.

"Do our rooms face the Pantiles?" I asked the lady of the wicket.

"I do not know," she answered. "Perhaps." "Perhaps?"

"I have not been to look. Ask the porter!"

I saw at once that my inquiry was an insult to her station. In England no lady at a wicket demeans herself with trivial knowledge; or perhaps she is in compact with the porter lest he lose his tip.

"Can we drink the water from the tap?" I asked. "There ain't no reason why you shouldn't." And then she added, "If you like it."