ave, still covered, as I saw it to-day, with wreaths of leaves and
moss, tied some of them with stained purple ribbons. The edge of the
grave-mound is turfed, but the bare and trodden grass shows that many
feet have crossed and recrossed the ground.

The orchard is divided on the left from a further and larger garden by a
dense growth of old hazels; and passing through an alley you see that a
broad path runs concealed among the hazels, a pleasant shady walk in
summer heat. Then the larger garden stretches in front of you; it is a
big place, with rows of vegetables, fruit-trees, and flower-borders,
screened to the east by a row of elms and dense shrubberies of laurel.
Along the north runs a high red-brick wall, with a big old-fashioned
vine-house in the centre, of careful design. In the corner nearest the
house is a large rose-garden, with a brick pedestal in the centre,
behind which rises the back of the stable, also of old red brick.

[Illustration: _Photo by Bishop, Barkway_

HARE STREET HOUSE

FROM THE GARDEN 1914

The timbered building on the left is the Chapel; in the foreground
is the unfinished rose-garden.]

But now there is a surprise; the back of the house is much older than
the front. You see that it is a venerable Tudor building, with pretty
panels of plaster embossed with a rough pattern. The moulded brick
chimney-stacks are Tudor too, while the high gables cluster and lean
together with a picturesque outline. The back of the house forms a
little court, with the cloister of which I spoke before running round
two sides of it. Another great yew tree stands there: while a doorway
going into the timber and plaster building which I mentioned before has
a rough device on it of a papal tiara and keys, carved in low relief and
silvered.

A friendly black collie comes out of a kennel and desires a little
attention. He licks my hand and looks at me with melting brown eyes, but
has an air of expecting to see someone else as well. A black cat comes
out of a door, runs beside us, and when picked up, clasps my shoulder
contentedly and purrs in my ear.

The house seen from the back looks exactly what it is, a little old
family mansion of a line of small squires, who farmed their own land,
and lived on their own produce, though the barns and rick-yard belong to
the house no longer. The red-brick front is just an addition made for
the sake of stateliness at some time of prosperity. It is a charming
self-contained