found in the cellar with Vandyck's name faintly traced on it, hangs
opposite the fireplace. The great treasure of the room, though, after
the ceiling, is a letter from Kingsley, framed, protected with glass,
and lying on a table.

Mrs. Senter looked almost green, when she beheld me, the picture of
health and joy, and saw on what good terms I was with Sir Lionel. I am
certain, dear, that she wants to marry him, and I can't think she's
capable of appreciating such a man, so it must be for his money. A
"sportin', huntin', don't-you-know--what?" sort of fellow would please
her better, if all else were suitable, because she could turn him round
her finger; and that neither she nor anybody else can ever do with Sir
Lionel--though he is pathetically chivalrous where women are concerned,
and still more pathetically credulous.

I remember so well your reading "Westward Ho!" aloud to me when I was
about ten, and had been ill. I associate it with the joy of getting
well. It made me feel proud of my Devonshire ancestors, even then, and
it makes me more proud now, for I've been reading the book for the
second time, in Kingsley-land. It's like the Bible almost, in Bideford.
I should pity the person who dared pick a flaw in the story, in the
hearing of a Bideford man, woman, or child. Why, I believe even a
Bideford dog would understand the insult, and snap!

It's a great, and rather original compliment to name a town in honour of
a book; but "Westward Ho!" the novel, is worthy of a finer namesake. Of
course, Rudyard Kipling having been to school in Westward Ho! makes the
place more interesting than it ever could have been of itself, in spite
of its glorious neighbour, the sea. But Bideford is a delightful place.
Dad used to say that no men in the world could beat the men of Devon for
courage; and that Bideford men were amongst the bravest of all, as you
and I would have known from "Westward Ho!" even if we'd never read
history. It looks an old-world town, almost unspoiled, even now, with
its far-famed bridge on twenty-four arches, its steeply sloping streets,
its quay, and its quaint pink and green houses by the river. In the Old
Ship Tavern "The Brotherhood of the Rose" was founded (you remember),
and Sir Richard Grenville--dear Sir Richard!--had his house where the
Castle Inn stands now. I took a long walk with Sir Lionel and (I am
sorry to say) Mrs. Senter, on the Quay along the riverside; and there
are some guns there, which th