But today, for all its history and legend, Moreton Court has degenerated into an ill-kept tenement farmhouse and the banquet hall with its richly moulded plaster roof is used as a storehouse for cheese. The stagnant waters of the moat and the uncleanly dairy yard directly in front of the house accord ill with its old-time state and with our modern notions of sanitation. The church near at hand is older and quite as unique as the manor; little restoration has interfered with its antique charm. Its bench ends still show the Tudor Rose and are undoubtedly those originally placed in the church. A "sanctuary ring" in the door and an odd circular alms-chest are very unusual and the altar tombs and screens are worthy of notice. In the church are buried the ancient lords of Moreton Court, who sleep their long sleep while church and manor degenerate into plebeian hands and gradually fall into ruin. We found it practically impossible at the close of the day to trace on the map the maze of byways we threaded before reaching Worcester, and now our wanderings come back only as a general impression. We crossed the Severn at Tewkesbury but did not enter the town. A departure from the Worcester road into a narrow lane led us in a mile or two into Ripple, one of the quaintest and coziest of hamlets. Only a few thatched cottages clustered about the stone market cross of immemorial days--cottages overshadowed by no less immemorial elms, mantled with ivy and dashed with the color of rose vines. Near the cross, relics of days when there were rogues in Ripple--surely there are none now--are the oaken stocks and weather-beaten whipping-post. What a quiet, dreamy, secluded place it seems. It is hard indeed to imagine that within a circle of fifty miles is a country teeming with cities. If the village has any history we did not learn it--no great man is connected with Ripple as Tennyson with Somersby, though Ripple is not unlike Somersby. Ripple is worth a day's journey just for itself. Only one lane leads to the village, but we left it over a wide common, passing many gates to regain the main road. [Illustration: TOWN CROSS, STOCKS AND WHIPPING POST, RIPPLE.] We left this again in a few miles for Strensham, a village not unlike Ripple, though larger. Its church, our "object of interest," is situated in the fields a mile from the town. No open road leads to it, only a rough stone-strewn path through the fields. They told us, though, that we might take the car to the church, and we passed through several gates before we paused in the green meadow in front of the old structure. There was no one in charge; the doors were locked and it looked as if our pains in coming were all for nothing. A man who was trimming the hedge pointed out the rectory and a little effort brought forth the rector himself, who seemed much pleased that pilgrims should be interested enough to come to his church.