All possible hurry was made; still, it was after three o’clock before the village was reached. The travellers scampered through it, Hendon’s tongue going all the time. “Here is the church — covered with the same ivy — none gone, none added.” “Yonder is the inn, the old Red Lion, — and yonder is the market-place.” “Here is the Maypole, and here the pump — nothing is altered; nothing but the people, at any rate; ten years make a change in people; some of these I seem to know, but none know me.” So his chat ran on.

The end of the village was soon reached; then the travellers struck into a crooked, narrow road, walled in with tall hedges, and hurried briskly along it for half a mile, then passed into a vast flower garden through an imposing gateway, whose