a deep, secluded
valley, and the narrow byway leading to the ruin was so steep and rough
that we left the car and walked down the hill. A small village nestles
in the valley, a quiet, out-of-the-way little place whose thatched
cottages were surrounded by a riot of old-fashioned flowers and their
walls dashed with the rich color of the bloom-laden rose vines. Back of
the village, in lonely grandeur, stands the abbey, still imposing
despite decay and neglect. Just in front of it is the cottage of the old
custodian, who seemed considerably troubled by our application to visit
the ruins. He said that the place was not open on Sunday and gave us to
understand that he had conscientious scruples against admitting anyone
on that day. The hint of a fee overcame his scruples to such an extent
that he intimated that the gates were not locked anyway and if we
desired to go through them he did not know of anything that would
prevent us. We wandered about in the shadows of the high but crumbling
walls, whose extent gave a strong impression of the original glory of
the place, and one may well believe the statement that, at the time of
the Dissolution, Rievaulx was one of the largest as well as richest of
the English abbeys. The old keeper was awaiting us at the gateway and
his conscientious scruples were again awakened when we asked him for a
few post-card pictures. He amiably intimated his own willingness to
accommodate us, but said he was afraid that the "old woman" (his wife)
wouldn't allow it, but he would find out. He returned after a short
interview in the cottage and said that there were some pictures on a
table in the front room and if we would go in and select what we wanted
and leave the money for them it would be all right.

[Illustration: OLD COTTAGES AT COCKINGTON.]

On our return from Helmsley, we noticed a byway leading across the
moorland with a sign-board pointing the way "to Coxwold." We were
reminded that in this out-of-the-way village Laurence Sterne, "the
father of the English novel," had lived many years and that his cottage
and church might still be seen. A narrow road led sharply from the
beautiful Yorkshire farm lands, through which we had been traveling, its
fields almost ready for the harvest, into a lonely moor almost as brown
and bare as our own western sagebrush country. It was on this
unfrequented road that we encountered the most dangerous hill we passed
over during our trip, and the road descending it