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the only inhabitants we saw were an old gaffer talking across a garden wall to a woman who stood in her doorway listlessly listening to him; we were much amused to hear the former suddenly exclaim, just as we passed by, "Why, bless my soul, I've been over half an hour here; I must go now and have a chat with old Mother Dash." It suggested to us that his life was mostly composed of gossiping, and that time was not such a priceless commodity at Falkingham as in most places. Here at least the hurry and rush, the stress and striving of the nineteenth century appear not to have penetrated, and humanity rusts rather than wears away. Can this be due to the mere absence of the railway, I wonder? Certainly where the iron horse does not penetrate, life seems to be lived at a lower pressure than elsewhere. A deep sense of repose hung over the whole place, a peacefulness that could possibly be felt; for a town it was unnaturally—painfully I might almost say—silent: in the heart of the country we could not have found a greater tranquillity!

Having "done" the town and having added a few more pencil notes to our sketch-book, on glancing around we suddenly espied the church half hidden away in a corner to the left of our inn that somehow we had hitherto overlooked. Approaching the aged fane we noticed a great clock-*face on the weather-worn and hoary tower with a solitary wooden hand thereon pointing aimlessly down to six; it was then a few minutes to one, for we had lunched early, having started in the