From the large low windows an enchanting view presented itself. Stretches of beautiful park, dotted with ancient trees, through which gleamed the placid waters of the lake--now like dull silver, for the sky had become overcast--sloped away from the front, while to the rear lay the gardens with all the bloom of English summer time. Out just beyond these is a many-pillared circular structure, like a classic temple, the burial-place of the Howards for many generations. Verily the surroundings almost savor of enchantment, and form, with the great mansion itself, a background of splendor and romance for the ancient family. And the very freedom with which such places are thrown open to people of all degrees does much to entrench the feudal system in England. But we have lingered long enough at Castle Howard; the sky is lowering and gray sheets of rain are sweeping through the trees. We hasten to the trusty car and are soon ensconced beneath its rainproof coverings. It is gloomy and cheerless enough, but it would have seemed far more so could we have foreseen that for the next ten days the weather would be little better. One loses much under such conditions. The roads as a rule are not affected and with a reliable motor one may keep going quite as well as on sunshiny days; but the beauty of the landscapes will often be shut out, and a succession of dull, chilly days has a decidedly depressing effect on one's spirits. The direct route across the moor to Thirsk is impassable--the heavy rain has made it a trail of deep mud, and we dare not attempt its precipitous "bank" under such conditions. A detour of many miles by way of Easingwold is necessary, but once on the North Road there is ample opportunity to make up for delay. Country constables will hardly be abroad in the driving rain and the motor purrs quite as contentedly and drives the car quite as swiftly as in the sunniest weather. We splash through the streets of Thirsk with a glance at its church tower, the one redeeming feature of the town. The rain soon ceases, but a gray mist half hides the outlines of the Cleveland Hills on our right and hangs heavily over the fertile valley to our left. It is of little consequence, for there are few stretches of main road in England that have less to detain the wayfarer than the forty-eight miles from York to Stockton-on-Tees. Yarm is a sleepy town overshadowed by its majestic church tower, which again impresses us how the church alone often relieves the squalidness and gives a touch of sentiment to many an uninteresting English village. At Yarm we enter the broad vale of the Tees and again traverse the wide, unattractive street of Stockton. Twenty miles farther Durham's stately towers loom in dim outline against the gray sky; we cautiously wend our way through the crooked streets of the cathedral town and plunge into the fog that hangs heavily over the Newcastle road.