n's house near by, all overrun with
vines, thinking of Trollope again and Framley parsonage.

Before going back to the White Horse Inn I wander round the village
until I find that I am lost. The discovery is not very alarming in a
place so small as this, even at night. I resolve to turn every corner
to the left, and see what will come of it. I presently find that
getting out into the country comes of it; and having crossed a bridge
and come upon a silent brickyard, and seen the long road winding
away into the open country, I am reminded of Oliver Twist--or was
it Pip?--running away from home and trudging off under the stars to
London. Somehow, it seems this road must lead to London.

Turning about, but still walking at random and turning left-hand
corners, I presently see the abbey tower again, and make for it. The
street through which I pass is apparently the home of the British
working man. A light burning in any house is most rare. Occasionally a
man can be seen through the odd little windows, smoking a pipe by the
blaze of the fire on the hearth. Here are the abbey windows, and now
I know where I am. Down this narrow, winding street, across the open
place where Lord Palmerston stands stonily in the moonlight, and I am
at the White Horse Inn again.

At nine o'clock next morning there is a rap at the door of my room.
The door being opened a man-servant is discovered, who touches his
forehead (having no hat to touch) and says, "The ladies would like to
'ave you breakfast with them, sir."

He is so very respectful in his manner of saying this that he is
inaudible, and being asked what he said, repeats the touching his
forehead and then repeats his words.

There are no muffins at breakfast--a fact which I record merely
because this is the first time since we have been in England that this
peculiarly English dish has been omitted at breakfast. It appears on
inquiry that muffins are a luxury of large towns. In villages they
are rarely obtainable at less than about a week's notice. In fact, you
can't get anything to eat, of any sort, without pretty liberal notice.

After breakfast we go to see the old abbey. It is an imposing and
well-preserved pile. It was founded by Ethelwold, a thane--one of
those righting, praying, thieving old rascals who lived in the tenth
century, and made things lively for any one who went past their houses
with money on his person. When Ethelwold had stolen an unusually large
sum one day, he