, bursting into
tears.

"But I read it in a book," said Horace, who had not wished to hurt her,
but still desired to serve the truth. "It was sent to father."

"Everything in books isn't true," said Janet.

"Oh, I say!" said Horace.

"Of course it's not," said Mary. "Books are always being replied to and
squashed."

"Well, this book was by a Member of Parliament," said Horace.

This was very awkward for the defenders of Shakespeare. What were they
to do?

Gregory, who had not seemed to be interested in the debate, settled it.
He walked up to an old man who was standing near them, and asked him.
"It isn't true," he said, "is it, that Shakespeare's works were written
by Bacon?"

"No," said the old man, "it's a wicked falsehood."

"How do you know?" asked Horace.

"How do I know!" exclaimed the old man. "Why, I've lived at Stratford,
man and boy, seventy years, and of course I know."

"Of course," said Janet.

"But a Member of Parliament says it was Bacon," Horace persisted.

"What's he Member for?" the old man asked. "Eh? Not for
Stratford-on-Avon, I'll be bound."

"I don't know," said Horace, who had nothing else to say.

"Take my advice," the old man replied, "and don't believe anyone who
says that Shakespeare wanted help. Look at that brow!"

"But he isn't like a swan, is he?" Gregory asked.

"Of course not," said the old man. "That's poetry. If he had been like
a swan, it wouldn't have been poetry to call him one."

Gregory pondered for a little while. Then he asked: "Would it be poetry
to call a swan a Shakespeare?"

"Oh, Gregory, come away," said Janet; "you're too clever this morning!"

Hester, however, still had much to do, and she refused to go until she
had laid some flowers also on Anne Hathaway's tomb and on that of
Susanna, Shakespeare's daughter, who married Dr. Hall. She also copied
the epitaph, which begins:

"Witty above her sexe, but that's not all,
Wise to Salvation was good Mistress Hall."

But I am going too fast, for this was Monday morning, and we have not
yet accounted for all of Sunday. The only Shakespeare relic which they
visited that day was the site of his house, New Place, close to the
hotel. The house, of course, should be standing now, and would be, but
for the behaviour of a deplorable clergyman, as you shall hear.
Shakespeare, grown rich, and thinking of returning to Stratford from
London, bought New Place for his home; he died there in 1616, and his
wi