on to the window-sill, you could get your hand in and undo the hasp, and”
“And you?”
“Oh, you’ll let me in by the kitchen door.”
I did it. My conscience called me a burglar—in vain. Was it not my own, or as good as my own house?
I let her in at the back door. We walked through the big dark kitchen where the old three-legged pot towered large on the hearth, and the old spits and firedogs still kept their ancient place. Then through another kitchen where red rust was making its full meal of a comparatively modern range.
Then into the great hall, where the old armour and the buff-coats and round-caps hang on the walls, and where the carved stone staircases run at each side up to the gallery above.
The long tables in the middle of the hall were scored by the knives of the many who had eaten meat there—initials and dates were cut into them. The roof was groined, the windows low-arched.
“Oh, but what a place!” said she; “this must be much older than the rest of it”
“Evidently. About 1300, I should say.”
