At one end of the village stood the "British Lion" public-house. It was
a quaint old homestead of two stories, with black, oaken interlacing
beams in its wattled walls and mullioned windows, retaining the small
diamond, leaded panes, long ago discarded by more pretentious
contemporaries. Before the door still stood an ancient horse-block,
which had served in its time to mount many a lady of olden days; for the
inn had once been of no little importance when stage-coaches plying
between London and the north, along the old Roman road, daily passed the
end of the lane leading to the village. Many a guest of quality, in
those days, spent a night in the "British Lion."

Opposite the inn door, on the other side of the road, a signboard swung
in a frame upheld by a massive oaken pillar, under the shelter of a
cluster of tall elms; on a marine background, the noble beast that stands
for the type of national courage and strength was depicted rampant, his
fierce claws raised in defiance of all invaders. Under the sign shone
out in golden letters the name, "Stephen Dale."

The other end of the straggling street was closed by the old church with
its squat tower, whose carven doorways and capitals were wont to attract
to the place many a traveler learned in archaeology; for it was a famous
building in its way, and was honorably mentioned in most manuals of
architecture.

The inn and the church had little in common--less, indeed, than an inn
and a church in other villages. Stephen Dale's sole interest in the
sacred building was of a temporal nature; he regarded its attractions
with satisfaction because they served to bring past his door many a
wayfarer who would otherwise never set foot in Lanedon. Such might pass
on their way to the church, but would seldom omit to enter the inn on