The bright August sun shines fiercely on the opposite pavement. Its rays glint up and down the façade of the tall houses, here and there catching the angle of a projecting cornice, then reddening and almost beautifying some old smoke-blackened chimney. Many are the beautiful though rarely-noticed spots of colour these rays bring to light. Tiny atoms of green moss, and of those other hardy lichens that time gathers round about old tiles, glow like gems when caught by the flickering beams. Even the shade-loving lycopodiums, that as years roll on, softly carpet with their minute sprays all the damp, ugly spots into which the sun rarely penetrates, even these modest plants grow brighter and more beautiful as the unwonted warmth and sunshine steal into their secluded corners. With what delicacy and grace does not Nature soften and re-colour all the injuries that time and man's neglect so surely bring about! As the hours wear on, the restfulness of the old precincts grows more and more sweet. The subdued roar of the great city rises and falls in measured cadence, and mingles quite pleasantly with the cawing of the rooks as they slowly wing their way home from their feeding grounds near Hampstead and Highgate, wheeling and cawing lazily as they circle round the old trees ere they settle themselves for the night. An ancient rookery still exists in the gardens of the Inn, and the soft evening air, as it sways to and fro the branches of the tall elms in which the nests have been built, brings with it the delicious scent of newly-cut grass. Well may the Benchers love their Inn. In no other place in London are there so many pleasant reminders of the fair country that once surrounded these Courts and Halls. When seated in the gardens under the shade of the ancient trees, listening to the songs and chirpings of innumerable birds, it seems really incongruous that in so restful a spot, where so much speaks of quiet country life, weighty legal matters are for ever being transacted. Could we penetrate into the secrets of many of the old, dark houses that frown around, what tales of anxiety, of suffering, what histories of the trials that blight men's lives would come to light. To the doctor and to the lawyer the deadly malady, the heart-crushing anxiety, must ever be told without reserve. No cruel symptom, no ugly detail, must be concealed. No man may keep a secret from such advisers. Lawyers as well as doctors must be told not only the truth, but the whole often hateful truth.