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 well as between Lincoln and Horncastle; for at this spot those two highways meet.

Having aroused some one and stabled our horses, we entered the ancient hostelry, and were shown into a front sitting-room, where, doubtless, in the days gone by, our forefathers feasted and made merry. The saddest feature of this later age is the decay of joyousness in life; we travel luxuriously certainly, but seriously, as we seem to do all else. Our sitting-room had a look as though it had seen better times, the carpet, curtains, and paper were worn and sun-faded, but the room was clean and sweet, and the sunshine streaming in made it more cheerful, to me at any rate, than certain sumptuously furnished drawing-rooms I know well, where the inspiriting sunshine is carefully excluded by blinds, lest it should fade the too expensive upholstering. Yet there is nothing so decorative or so truly beautiful in a room; it is only the poor, if expensive, modern material that fades shabbily. Good old stuff, a Turkey or Persian carpet, old Oriental hangings, tone and improve rather by light, their colours are simply softened down.

"What can we have to eat?" we inquired. "Have you any cold meat?" No, but they could perhaps get us a chop, or we could have some ham and eggs, or bread and cheese. We were hungry, very hungry in fact, for driving across country on a breezy, bracing day is a wonderful appetiser; so, neglecting the counter attractions of bacon and eggs—the standard dish of a homely country inn when other things fail—we elected to have the certain