But as we rounded a corner and came upon a full view of the abbey church, we felt that it had rightly been styled the "glory of Sherborne." Perhaps its low tower gives an impression of incompleteness and lack of proportion--but it seemed to accentuate the mighty proportions of the church itself and it was with a feeling almost verging upon awe that we entered the majestic portals. And we learned it as we know only few historic churches in England, for the gem of all vergers is at Sherborne. To him his work is a labor of love, not the usual perfunctory performance in hope of a fee. He had made discoveries of importance himself in whiling away his time in the abbey and had located and uncovered an ancient effigy that had been inconsiderately built into the walls in earlier days. He told us of the checkered history of the abbey, of the wars of the monks and citizens, as a result of which the church suffered from a great fire, the marks of which still remain in the red stains on the soft yellow stone, of the Dissolution and the cavalier manner in which Henry the Wrecker bestowed the abbey on one of his friends, who in turn sold it to the parish for two hundred and fifty pounds--all of which would be too long to record in detail in this crowded chronicle. But the interior of Sherborne Abbey--where is there another like it? Not in all England; probably not in the world. It lacks the "dim religious light" that pervades, like a soft-toned mist, most of the great church buildings; the windows flood the yellow stone with many-colored beams and lighten the splendors of the golden fan vault with its rich bosses and heraldic devices until every detail comes out clearly to the beholder below. But we are lingering too long at the abbey; we were to return to the Antelope in half an hour, and thrice that period has elapsed. We hie back to our inn and do not complain of our cold repast. "It is ten minutes' walk to the castle," said our host. Then why take the car? A ten minutes' walk will give us a little of the exercise we need. We start under the sweltering sun--it is a hot day, even as we reckon it--and follow the crooked streets. Here is a high wall--it must be the castle. No, the castle is farther on; and we repeat the wearisome experience until half an hour has elapsed and we are only at the entrance gate of the park. We are almost exhausted, for our long tramp on the "abbey stones" did not especially invigorate us, but we will go on after having come so far.