orester--and the bow dropping from the
old man's hands, and the blood sinking to his heart in one chilling
rush, and his glorious features collapsing into that look of
changeless and rigid sorrow, which haunted me in the portrait upon
the wall in childhood. He never smiled again!"

In those jealous days, an archbishop was not forgiven an accident.
Bishops refused to be consecrated by a prelate with blood upon his
hands. A free pardon was granted him; but he never recovered his spirit,
and fasted once a month on Tuesday for the rest of his life. Peter
Hawkins's widow was by no means so disconsolate. The Archbishop settled
an annuity of L20 upon her, and she got another husband at once.

The Archbishop's great legacy is the Hospital. Unlike Whitgift's
Hospital at Croydon, it has charming surroundings; like it, it is quiet
and old and solid, of good dark red brick, with mullioned windows and
latticed panes, four turrets over the entrance gate, and the most
graceful chimneys that ever carried up smoke from pensioners'
fireplaces. There are many delightful groups of chimneys in Surrey
villages and on Surrey mansions, but Guildford's chimneys are best of
all.

In summer, the quadrangle is bright with geraniums, and through a
passage opposite the entrance is a glimpse of a simple kitchen garden.
In it, as one of the pensioners, a white-haired, blue-eyed old man, told
me, vegetables are grown for the inmates of the hospital. I gathered
that they were not allowed to manage the garden themselves, but that the
garden produce was divided. But they cook for themselves. The pride of
the hospital, however, is not the garden, but the old oak of the
staircases and dining hall and board room, the settle and table, the
copper caldron and the windows with their punning legend "Clamamus Abba
Pater." I am not sure if my old pensioner could read it, but he pointed
it out to me, and when I read it, approved. In the chapel, where there
are a number of Latin verses telling the story of the painted windows,
it was easier for him; he handed me a written explanation. But the
explanation matters very little; the real thing is the superb colour.
The story, which is of Jacob, Esau and Laban, is told on two windows,
with nine lights. There are purples and greens in those windows at which
you might gaze through a dozen sermons; but there is one robe of
burning, translucent orange that would light a cathedral.

The history of these wi