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"GENUINE ENGLISH BRANDY!”

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it was not only looking! Soon after this we reached a roadside inn with a swinging sign-board that proclaimed it to be "The Tennyson's Arms," where we also learnt that we could quench our thirst with strong ales." This somehow called to mind another notice we saw at a country "public" elsewhere to this effect: "Ales and spirits sold here; also genuine English brandy." The last item was distinctly novel! "The Tennyson's Arms' minded us that we were in the county that gave the great Victorian poet birth.

Next we came to Tallington, another clean and picturesque village: two desirable qualities that unhappily do not always go together. There we stopped to sketch and photograph a large stone-built pigeonhouse that would hold a little army of birds, which stood in an old farmyard; a fierce-looking bull bellowing a loud disapproval of our proceedingsacross a strong high fence.

Beyond Tallington we somehow got off our road and found ourselves in the remote and sleepy hamlet of Barholm, an uninteresting spot. On the tower of the church here, however, about half-way up, we observed a stone slab with a rather quaint inscription thereon that we made out, with some difficulty, to be

Was ever such a thing

Since the Creation

A new steeple built

In time of vexation . . . 1648.

Then by cross-country crooked ways we reached Market Deeping, a sleepy, decayed little town,

whose first name is now a misnomer, as the market is no more. The low-lying level country all around here, we learnt, was under water during the great flood of 1880, when the corn-fields were so flooded that only the tops of the ears of grain showed, and the ducks swam three to four feet above what is now dry land-a great event in local annals that even now affords a subject for local gossip. Such notable occurrences give the rural folk a time to reckon from, more to their liking than any date. "It were the year after the big flood," or "Three years afore the flood," and so forth, are the remarks that may frequently be heard. To a stranger in these parts, unaware of past happenings, it sounds curious to listen to some such saying as this: "I minds my father telling me, who died just afore the flood," for to the average stranger "the flood" suggests the Biblical one, and that was some time ago now!

From Market Deeping to Deeping St. Jamesanother old decayed town that looks as out-of-theworld and forsaken as though nothing would ever happen again there was but a short distance, our road following the bends of the winding river Welland to our right, the air blowing refreshingly cool on our faces from the gliding water. So picturesque was the river-side with bordering old trees, cottages, and buildings, tumbling weir, which made a pleasing liquid melody on the quiet air, and wooden footbridge, that we were tempted to stop a while and sketch it. At Deeping St. James we noticed as we passed by its grand old church, whose dusky and

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crumbling walls tell the tale of the long centuries it has bravely weathered. Near to this ancient fane, in a wide space where three roads meet, stands a market cross apparently reconstructed from old material, presumably that of the fine Perpendicular Cross that is recorded to have stood somewhere here in past days.

Our antiquarian friend at Stamford had told us that shortly after leaving "the Deepings" we should pass close to the roadside an ideal old manor-house with a gateway-house in front, and having mullioned windows, courtyard, great hall, oak screen, with quaint and characteristic architectural details, that made it a most interesting place. "You must see it," he exclaimed after enlarging rapturously upon its rare beauties: a skeleton, he further informed us, had recently been found in the roof there, supposed to be that of a man stowed away and starved in a hiding-hole-without which advantage no old home of any pretensions was considered complete. Strange to say, even only the other day an architect of standing confided to me that more than once recently he had been called upon to provide a secret chamber in large houses he was employed to design the real reason for this curious demand it would be interesting to know. I have seen quite a modern country house with a well-planned secret hiding-place, and the amount of ingenuity displayed in the contriving of this excited my utmost admiration. But why such things in the close of the nineteenth century?

The charming word-pictures of this old home,

within and without, had raised both our expectations and curiosity. "You cannot possibly miss it," we had been assured; nevertheless we did so most successfully, much to our regret and disappointment; in fact, to own the truth, we did not so much as obtain even a glimpse of it. This was exceedingly provoking; indeed, the roads about were very puzzling they were very lonely also, for we never came across a soul of whom to ask the way. The country was a dead level and the hedges were high, so that we could not see much beyond the roadway; it was like being in a maze, the point being to find the old manor-house. Then it struck us as being rather a poor joke to say that we could not possibly miss it! Could we not? Why, we did so quite easily! Then we remembered that we had been told at Stamford that we should have to drive through the village of Peakirk to get to Crowland, and that we could not by any chance get there without so doing. But somehow again we managed to accomplish the impossible, for we eventually got to Crowland, but we never went through Peakirk or any other village. The state of affairs was this, that we had lost our way, there was no one about to put us right, sign-posts we looked for in vain, or if we found one it was past service: so we simply drove eastwards as far as we could, trusting to fate. Fortunately the day was fine, and time was not pressing; indeed, we rather enjoyed the delightful uncertainties of our position. We presumed that we should arrive somewhere at last, and that was enough for us. There is a sort of fascination in