The trustees, or governing body, are careful too. A few years ago,
finding that his old lodgings in the quadrangle were too narrow for
the Master's comfort, they erected a fine new house for him, just
without the precincts. But though separated from the Hospital by a
roadway, this new house comes into the picture from many points of
view, and therefore not only did the architect receive instructions
to harmonise it with the ancient buildings, but where he left off the
trustees succeeded, planting wistarias, tall roses and selected ivies
to run up the coigns and mullions. Nay, it is told that to encourage
the growth of moss they washed over a portion of the walls (the
servants' quarters) with a weak solution of farmyard manure.
These conscientious pains have their reward, for to-day, at a little
distance, the Master's house appears no less ancient than the rest of
the mediaeval pile with which it composes so admirably.

With the Master himself we have made acquaintance. In the words of
an American magazine, "the principal of this old-time foundation,
Master E. J. Wriothesley (pronounced 'Wrottesley') Blanchminster, may
be allowed to fill the bill. He is founder's kin, and just sweet."

The Master stepped forth from his rose-garlanded porch, crossed the
road, and entered the modest archway which opens on the first, or
outer, court. He walked habitually at a short trot, with his head
and shoulders thrust a little forward and his hands clasped behind
him. He never used a walking-stick.

The outer court of St. Hospital is plain and unpretending, with a
brewhouse on one hand and on the other the large kitchen with its
offices. Between these the good Master passed, and came to a second
and handsomer gate, with a tower above it, and three canopied niches
in the face of the tower, and in one of the niches--the others are
empty--a kneeling figure of the great cardinal himself.
The passageway through the tower is vaulted and richly groined, and
in a little chamber beside it dwells the porter, a part of whose duty
it is to distribute the Wayfarers' Dole--a horn of beer and a manchet
of bread--to all who choose to ask for it. The Master halted a
moment to give the porter good evening.

"And how many to-day, Brother Manby?"

"Thirty-three, Master, including a party of twelve that came in
motor-cars. I was jealous the cast wouldn't go round, for they all
insisted on having the dole, and a full slice, too--the gentleme