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Rh hour to spare, there is time to make a détour, and drive round the exterior of the great Cheetham Hospital, which, with its college and library, are famous relies of old Manchester, and are in the immediate neighbourhood of the Cathedral, and in a moment you seem to be transported from the bustle and roar of life into the quiet and peace of the old world cloisters.

Presently, driving past St. Peter's Church, the open door invites a peep at the famous painting of the "Descent from the Cross," by Annibal Carracci, which adorns the altar, and, finally, passing on the left Owens College, the principal branch of the Victoria University, the cab pulls up at Miss Fothergill's door.

It is a quiet street lying off Oxford-street, one of the main thoroughfares of Manchester; and the house, one of a modest little row, is small and ordinary. The rooms are larger than might have been expected from its exterior, notably Miss Fothergill's own "den," as she calls the place where she spends nearly all her time. It is upstairs, and has two windows facing south; between them stands a large writing table, from which the author rises to welcome you. It is literally covered with papers and manuscripts. "You think it looks extremely untidy," she says with a bright smile, after the first greetings are over. " It is not untidy for me, because I can put my hand on everything that I want. I am much cramped for space, too, in which to arrange my books as I would have them. I have a great many more than these, and they are scattered about in different other rooms in the house, which is only my temporary home, and everything is in disorder