The shop keeper, a benevolent-looking, gray-bearded old gentleman, is an authority on antiques and shows us many curios of astonishing value. But his daughter is more shrewd at business. No effort is made to sell us anything--only to interest us--and the apparent honesty of the shop people spoils many a deal. I am desirous of some souvenir of Ludlow, something distinctly suggestive of the place; an old sword, or pistol or what not, that might possibly--I ask no more than possibly--have been used in the frays that once raged round the castle. There are ancient swords and pistols galore; but they are French rapiers or Scotch claymores, and though I eagerly seek for a mere suggestion that one of them might possibly have come from Ludlow, I am told that it could hardly be; such treasures have been picked up long ago and should one be found it would command a large price. It is a disappointment, but it gives us confidence in the purchases we finally make--so many, in fact, that our ready cash is quite exhausted; but such a trifling matter is of no consequence--we are perfectly welcome to take the goods and send the money when we reach London. "We have done considerable business with Americans," says the young woman. "Were you ever at Mount Vernon?--of course you have been. We supplied the antiques used in furnishing Washington's kitchen there. One of the ladies of the committee happened to visit Ludlow and gave us the order." Before we finally leave the old town which has charmed us so much, we cannot forbear a last look at the castle, whose gray walls are flaunted by the noonday sun. We enter the wide grass-grown court; it is quite deserted and we make a farewell round of the lordly though ruinous apartments. It is the day of all days for a view from the battlements of the keep, over which flies the red and white banner of St. George. We climb the shattered and somewhat precarious stairs and behold the pleasant vale of the Teme, lying far beneath, every feature clear and distinct in the lucent, untainted summer day. The verdant valley, with its silvery river, its fine parks, its mansions, farmhouses, towns and villages, and the far blue outlines of the Welsh hills, make a scene quite too enchanting for any words of mine to describe. The town just outside the castle walls lies slumberously below the church tower, upon which the great clock points to the hour of twelve; the bells peal forth the melody that finds a response always and in every heart,--doubly so in that of the exiled wanderer--"Home Sweet Home," and which never seemed to us so strong in its appeal, for we are to sail within the week. INDEX A Abbottsford, 214. Abergavenny, 105-106. Abermaw, 365. Abingdon, 259. Aethelred, 286. Ailesbury Arms, Marlborough, 275. Alcester, 137, 371. Aldworth, 294. Alfoxden House, 81. Alfred the Great, 58-59, 260. Alloa, 227. Alnwick, 239-240. Althorpe House, 47. Ambleside, 184. "Ancient Mariner," 81.