On our return to Leeds, our friend who accompanied us suggested that we
spend the next day, Sunday, at Harrogate, fifteen miles to the north,
one of the most famous of English watering places. It had been drizzling
fitfully all day, but as we started on the trip, it began to rain in
earnest. After picking our way carefully until free from the slippery
streets in Leeds, we found the fine macadam road little affected by the
deluge. We were decidedly ahead of the season at Harrogate, and there
were but few people at the splendid hotel where we stopped.

The following Sunday was as raw and nasty as English weather can be when
it wants to, regardless of the time of year, and I did not take the car
out of the hotel garage. In the afternoon my friend and I walked to
Knaresborough, one of the old Yorkshire towns about three miles distant.
I had never even heard of the place before, and it was a thorough
surprise to me to find it one of the most ancient and interesting towns
in the Kingdom. Not a trace of modern improvement interfered with its
old-world quaintness--it looked as if it had been clinging undisturbed
to the sharply rising hillside for centuries. Just before entering the
town, we followed up the valley of the River Nidd to the so-called
"dripping well," whose waters, heavily charged with limestone, drip from
the cliffs above and "petrify" various objects in course of time by
covering them with a stonelike surface. Then we painfully ascended the
hill--not less than a forty-five per cent grade in motor parlance--and
wandered through the streets--if such an assortment of narrow
foot-paths, twisting around the corners, may be given the courtesy of
the name--until we came to the site of the castle. The guide-book gives
the usual epitaph for ruined castles, "Dismantled by orders of
Cromwell's Parliament," and so well was this done that only one of the
original eleven great watch-towers remains, and a small portion of the
Norman keep, beneath which are the elaborate vaulted apartments where