when it was given to her, to which she
replied:--

"Christ was the Word who spake it,
He took the bread and brake it;
And what that Word did make it,
That I believe, and take it."

In memory of this the lines were inscribed on the massy Norman pillar by
which she stood. From the style and cutting it is evident that the
inscription dates from the reign of Elizabeth. And very near Oatlands,
in fact on the grounds, there are two ancient yew-trees, several hundred
yards apart. The story runs that Queen Elizabeth once drew a long bow
and shot an arrow so far that, to commemorate the deed, one of these
trees was planted where she stood, and the other where the shaft fell.
All England is a museum of touching or quaint relics; to me one of its
most interesting cabinets is this of the neighborhood of Weybridge and
Walton-upon-Thames.

I once lived for eight months at Oatlands Park, and learned to know the
neighborhood well. I had many friends among the families in the
vicinity, and, guided by their advice, wandered to every old church and
manor-house, ruin and haunted rock, fairy-oak, tower, palace, or shrine
within a day's ramble. But there was one afternoon walk of four miles,
round by the river, which I seldom missed. It led by a spot on the bank,
and an old willow-tree near the bridge, which spot was greatly haunted by
the Romany, so that, excepting during the hopping-season of autumn, when
they were away in Kent, I seldom failed to see from afar a light rising
smoke, and near it a tent and a van, as the evening shadows blended with
the mist from the river in phantom union.

It is a common part of gypsy life that the father shall be away all day,
lounging about the next village, possibly in the _kitchema_ or ale-house,
or trying to trade a horse, while the wife trudges over the country, from
one farm-house or cottage to another, loaded with baskets, household
utensils, toys, or cheap ornaments, which she endeavors, like a true
Autolyca, with wily arts and wheedling tones, to sell to the rustics.
When it can be managed, this hawking is often an introduction to
fortune-telling, and if these fail the gypsy has recourse to begging.
But it is a weary life, and the poor _dye_ is always glad enough to get
home. During the day the children have been left to look out for
themselves or to the care of the eldest, and have tumbled about the van,
rolled around with the dog, and fought or frolicked as they cho