es linger and will remain so long as the story of English history
is told. King James, by the destruction of the castle, endeavored to
show fitting respect to the memory of his mother and no doubt hoped to
wipe out the recollection of his friendly relations with Queen Elizabeth
after she had caused the death of Mary.

The school children of Fotheringhay seemed quite familiar with its
history and on the lookout for strangers who came to the place. Two or
three of them quickly volunteered to conduct us to the site of the
castle. There was nothing to see after we got there, but our small
guides were thankful for the fee, which they no doubt had in mind from
the first. Mournful and desolate indeed seemed the straggling little
village where three centuries ago "a thousand witcheries lay felled at
one stroke," one of the cruelest and most pitiful of the numberless
tragedies which disfigure the history of England.

From Fotheringhay we returned to the York road and followed it northward
for about twenty miles. We passed through Woolsthorpe, an unattractive
little town whose distinction is that it was the birthplace of Sir Isaac
Newton. The thatched roof farmhouse where he was born is still standing
on the outskirts of the village. At Grantham, a little farther on, we
stopped for lunch at the "Royal and Angel" Hotel, one of the most
charming of the old-time inns. Like nearly all of these old hostelries,
it has its tradition of a royal guest, having offered shelter to King
Charles I when on his endless wanderings during the Parliamentary wars.
It is a delightful old building, overgrown with ivy, and its
diamond-paned lattice windows, set in walls of time-worn stone, give
evidence to its claims to antiquity.

We had paused in Grantham on our way to Belvoir Castle, about six miles
away, the seat of the Duke of Rutland. This is one of the finest as well
as most strikingly situated of the great baronial residences in England.
Standing on a gently rising hill, its many towers and battlements
looking over the forests surrounding it, this vast pile more nearly
fulfilled our ideas of feudal magnificence than any other we saw. It is
famous for its picture gallery, which contains many priceless originals
by Gainsborough, Reynolds and others. It has always been open to
visitors every week-day, but it chanced at the time that the old duke
was dangerously ill--so ill, in fact, that his death occurred a little
later on--and visitors were no