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dip of the oars, the rustle of the swans following in our wake, and the deep tones of the organ stealing down to us from the church, the glimmer of the organist's lamp through the stained-glass window making a point of soft and vai'ied color in the silver light without.
After lingering as long as possible at Stratford we visited most of the interesting parts of Warwickshire, driving from place to place over those perfect roads so well known and loved by Americans. The delicious, clover-scented air, the garden-like landscape, the long and ambient twilights, our youthful pleasure in everything, made the tour seem like a lovely dream. Yet, as I have since realized, only those who have lived in the country of England can fully appreciate its marked character and beauty.
At Kenilworth we stayed at the humble little cottage which had sheltered Walter Scott, who is said to have gone there to write his great novel under the shadow of the noble ruin. A villager told us, how, as a child, he had seen Sir Walter standing on the knoll near Amy Robsart's window, and how his figure, wrapped in a long cloak, seemed to tower in the moonlight I shall never forget those days and nights: all peace and har-