years afterwards he remembered every detail of it.

'On the 4th day morning,' he writes, 'John Audland came with George
Fox to the house of John Camm at Cammsgill in Preston Patrick, who
with his wife and familie gladly received G.F.'

And now, while they are 'gladly receiving' their guest and waiting
till it is time to go down the steep hill to Preston Patrick, let us
look back at the farm-house of Cammsgill where they are sitting, and
learn something of its history and that of its owners.

It was to Cammsgill that Farmer John Camm had brought home his bride
on a late day of summer, thirteen years before the eventful year 1652
of which these stories tell. A wise, prosperous man was good John
Camm, one of the most successful 'statesmen' in all the fertile dales
round about. So busy had he been developing his farm, and attending to
the numerous flocks and herds, that were ever increasing under his
skilful management, that time for love-making seemed to have been left
out of his life. But at last, when he was well over forty, he found
the one woman he had been unconsciously needing through all his
prosperous years to make his life round and complete. It was a mellow
day of Indian summer when John and Mabel Camm walked up the winding
road to Cammsgill for the first time as man and wife. But the golden
sunshine that lay on all the burnished riches of the well-filled
farm-yard was dim compared with the inward sunshine that gladdened the
farmer's heart.

Farmer John had made a wise choice, and he knew it. In his eyes
nothing was good enough for his wife, not even the home where he had
been born, and where his ancestors for generations had lived and died;
so Cammsgill had been entirely rebuilt before that golden September
day when John and Mabel Camm came home to begin their new life
together. The re-building had been done in such solid fashion that
part of the farm-house still stands, well-proportioned and
serviceable, after nearly three centuries have passed to test it,
showing that he who builds for love builds truly and well.

Mabel Camm was a proud woman as she stood at the door of her hillside
home and watched the autumn sunlight lighting up her husband's face as
he walked across his fields in the valley, or strode, almost with the
energetic step of a young man, up the crab-apple bordered track to the
farm.

Close at his heels followed his collie, looking up into his master's
face with adoring affection. Not only