you go upstairs, you find a panelled corridor with bedrooms. The one
over the study is small and dark, and said to be haunted. That over the
library is a big pleasant room with a fine marble fireplace--a boudoir
once, I should think. Over the hall is another dark panelled room with a
four-post bed, the walls hung with a most singular and rather terrible
tapestry, representing a dance of death.

Beyond that, over the dining-room, is a beautiful panelled room, with a
Tudor fireplace, and a bed enclosed by blue curtains. This was Hugh's
own room. Out of it opens a tiny dressing-room. Beyond that is another
large low room over the kitchen, which has been half-study,
half-bedroom, out of which opens a little stairway going to some little
rooms beyond over the offices.

Above that again are some quaint white-washed attics with dormers and
leaning walls; one or two of these are bedrooms. One, very large and
long, runs along most of the front, and has a curious leaden channel in
it a foot above the floor to take the rain-water off the leads of the
roof. Out of another comes a sweet smell of stored apples, which revives
the memory of childish visits to farm storerooms--and here stands a
pretty and quaint old pipe-organ awaiting renovation.

We must retrace our steps to the building at the back to which the
cloister leads. We enter a little sacristy and vestry, and beyond is a
dark chapel, with a side-chapel opening out of it. It was originally an
old brew-house, with a timbered roof. The sanctuary is now divided off
by a high open screen, of old oak, reaching nearly to the roof. The
whole place is full of statues, carved and painted, embroidered
hangings, stained glass, pendent lamps, emblems; there is a gallery
over the sacristy, with an organ, and a fine piece of old embroidery
displayed on the gallery front.

This is the house in which for seven years my brother Hugh lived. Let me
recall how he first came to see it. He was at Cambridge then, working as
an assistant priest. He became aware that his work lay rather in the
direction of speaking, preaching, and writing, and resolved to establish
himself in some quiet country retreat. One summer I visited several
houses in Hertfordshire with him, but they proved unsuitable. One of
these possessed an extraordinary attraction for him. It was in a bleak
remote village, and it was a fine old house which had fallen from its
high estate. It stood on the road and was used as a grocer'