The rest of the day I need not record. It was full of delicate
impressions--an old, gabled, mullioned house among its pastures; a
hamlet by a stream, admirably grouped; a dingle set with primroses;
and over all, the long, pure lines of upland, with here and there,
through a gap, the purple, wealthy plain.

I write this in the evening, at a little wayside inn, in a hamlet
under the hill. The name alone, Wenge Grandmain, is worth a
shilling. It is very simple, but clean, and the people are kind;
not with the professional manner of those who bow, smiling, to a
paying guest, but of those who welcome a wanderer and try to make
him a home. And so, in a dark-panelled little parlour, with a
sedate-ticking clock, I sit while the sounds of life grow fainter
and rarer in the little street.



THE CROSSFOXES INN,
BOURTON-ON-THE-WOLD,
April 16, 1904.


DEAR HERBERT,--I have now been ten days on my travels, but for the
last week I have pitched my moving tent at Bourton. Do you shudder
with the fear that I am going to give you pages of description of
scenery? It is not a SHUDDER with me when I get a landscape-letter;
it is merely that leaden dulness which falls upon the spirit when
it is confronted with statements which produce no impression upon
the mind. I always, for instance, skip the letters of travel which