We must retrace our steps to the building at the back to which the
cloister leads. We enter a little sacristy and vestry, and beyond is a
dark chapel, with a side-chapel opening out of it. It was originally an
old brew-house, with a timbered roof. The sanctuary is now divided off
by a high open screen, of old oak, reaching nearly to the roof. The
whole place is full of statues, carved and painted, embroidered
hangings, stained glass, pendent lamps, emblems; there is a gallery
over the sacristy, with an organ, and a fine piece of old embroidery
displayed on the gallery front.

This is the house in which for seven years my brother Hugh lived. Let me
recall how he first came to see it. He was at Cambridge then, working as
an assistant priest. He became aware that his work lay rather in the
direction of speaking, preaching, and writing, and resolved to establish
himself in some quiet country retreat. One summer I visited several
houses in Hertfordshire with him, but they proved unsuitable. One of
these possessed an extraordinary attraction for him. It was in a bleak
remote village, and it was a fine old house which had fallen from its
high estate. It stood on the road and was used as a grocer's shop. It
was much dilapidated, and there was little ground about it, but inside
there were old frescoes and pictures, strange plaster friezes and
moulded ceilings, which had once been brightly coloured. But nothing
would have made it a really attractive house, in spite of the curious
beauty of its adornment.

One day I was returning alone from an excursion, and passed by what we
call accident through Hare Street, the village which I have described. I
caught a glimpse of the house through the iron gates, and saw that there
was a board up saying it was for sale. A few days later I went there
with Hugh. It was all extremely desolate, but we found a friendly