ve Leicester beautiful Kenilworth Castle, which is five
miles distant.

As the carriages drove over the smooth road, beneath the venerable elms
and sycamores, artists along the way were sketching. Both Alfonso and Leo
tipped their hats, as members of a guild that recognizes art for art's
sake, a society that takes cognizance of neither nationality nor sect.

Gertrude and George had read Scott's novel in which he tells of the
ancient glories of Kenilworth, which dates back to the twelfth century,
and to-day is considered the most beautiful ruin in the world. Ivy mantles
the lofty ruined walls; the sun tinges in silver the gray old towers, and
sends a flood of golden light through the deep windows of the once
magnificent banqueting hall.

For years Kenilworth Castle was a royal residence, and later it was
the scene of bloody conflicts between kings and nobles. Today sheep
peacefully graze within the ruins and about the grounds. Visitors from
all parts of the world look in wonder upon the decay of glories that once
dazzled all Europe. Here the earl of Leicester entertained his virgin
queen hoping to marry her. As Elizabeth crossed the draw-bridge a song in
her praise was sung by a Lady of the Lake on an island floating in the
moat. Story writers have never tired of telling of the magnificence of
these entertainments that cost the ambitious earl $20,000 per day for
nineteen days.

Returning, Warwick Arms Hotel was reached for lunch, after which the
party drove eight miles to Stratford-on-Avon, a model town on the classic
Avon. Here in Henley Street, in a half-timbered house recently carefully
restored, Shakespeare was born. The walls and window panes are covered
with the names of visitors, while inside are kept albums for the
autographs of kings, queens, of Scott, Byron, Irving, and others. One
of the three rooms below is an ancient kitchen, where by the big open
chimney the poet often sat. Climbing a winding, wooden stairway,
George and Gertrude in the lead, our Harrisville friends entered the
old-fashioned chamber, where, it is said, on St. George's Day, April 19,
1564, William Shakespeare was born. A bust of the poet stands on the
table.

"We know little of his mother," said Gertrude, "except that she had a
beautiful name, Mary Arden. If it is true, as a rule, that all great men
have had great mothers, Mary Arden must have been a very superior woman."

"The reverse, Gertrude, must be equally true," said George, "th