we suddenly see the picturesque old town below
us. Like most of the villages of the country, it lies in one of the
narrow valleys which intersect the hills, so that you do not get a view
of the houses until you arrive at the edge of the depression in which
they are built.

Having paid the modest shilling which represents the fare for the five
miles, we start off for the priory. There was no difficulty in finding
our way to it. In all the Cotswold villages and small towns the "big
house" stands out conspicuously among the old cottages and barns and
farmhouses, half hidden as it is by the dense foliage of giant elms and
beeches and chestnuts and ash; nor is Burford Priory an exception to the
rule, though its grounds are guarded by a wall of immense height on one
side. And then once more we get the view we have seen so often on
Cotswold; yet it never palls upon the senses, but thrills us with its
own mysterious charm. Who can ever get tired of the picture presented by
a gabled, mediaeval house set in a framework of stately trees, amid
whose leafy branches the rooks are cawing and chattering round their
ancestral nests, whilst down below the fertilising stream silently
fulfils its never-ceasing task, flowing onwards everlastingly, caring
nothing for the vicissitudes of our transitory life and the hopes and
fears that sway the hearts of successive generations of men?

There the old house stands "silent in the shade"; there are the "nursery
windows," but the "children's voices" no longer break the silence of the
still summer day. Everywhere--in the hall, in the smoking-room, where
the empty gun-cases still hang, and in "my lady's bower,"

"Sorrow and silence and sadness
Are hanging over all."

Until we arrived within a few yards of the front door we had almost
forgotten that the place was a ruin; for though the house is but an
empty shell, almost as hollow as a skull, the outer walls are
absolutely complete and undamaged. At one end is the beautiful old
chapel, built by "Speaker" Lenthall in the time of the Commonwealth.
There is an air of sanctity about this lovely white freestone temple
which no amount of neglect can eradicate. The roof, of fine stucco work,
has fallen in; the elder shrubs grow freely through the crevices in the
broken pavement under foot,--and yet you feel bound to remove your hat
as you enter, for "you are standing on holy ground."

"EXUE CALCEOS, NAM TERRA EST SANCTA."

Over the e