The Reverend Mr. Cole was a delightful gentleman. His wife was equally kind and agreeable. I think they were, at first, rather unpleasantly surprised to find that their prospective tenants were from the “States”; but Hephzy and I managed to behave as unlike savages as we could, and the Cole manner grew less and less reserved. Mr. Cole and his wife were planning to spend a long vacation in Switzerland and his “living,” or parish, was to be left in charge of his two curates. There was a son at Oxford who was to join them on their vacation. Mr. Cole and I walked about the grounds and visited the church, the yard of which, with its weather-beaten gravestones and fine old trees, adjoined the rectory on the western side, behind the tall hedge. The church was built of stone, of course, and a portion of it was older than the Norman conquest. Before the altar steps were two ancient effigies of knights in armor, with crossed gauntlets and their feet supported by crouching lions. These old fellows were scratched and scarred and initialed. Upon one noble nose were the letters “A. H. N. 1694.” I decided that vandalism was not a modern innovation. While the rector and I were inspecting the church, Mrs. Cole and Hephzy were making a tour of the house. They met us at the door. Mrs. Cole's eyes were twinkling; I judged that she had found Hephzy amusing. If this was true it had not warped her judgment, however, for, a moment later when she and I were alone, she said: “Your cousin, Miss Cahoon, is a good housekeeper, I imagine.” “She is all of that,” I said, decidedly. “Yes, she was very particular concerning the kitchen and scullery and the maids' rooms. Are all American housekeepers as particular?” “Not all. Miss Cahoon is unique in many ways; but she is a remarkable woman in all.” “Yes. I am sure of it. And she has such a typical American accent, hasn't she.” We were to take possession on the following Monday. We lunched at the “Red Cow,” the village inn, where the meal was served in the parlor and the landlord's daughter waited upon us. The plump black horse drew us to the railway station, and we took the train for London. We have learned, by this time, that second, or even third-class travel was quite good enough for short journeys and that very few English people paid for first-class compartments. We were fortunate enough to have a second-class compartment to ourselves this time, and, when we were seated, Hephzy asked a question. “Did you think to speak about the golf, Hosy?” she said. “You will want to play some, won't you?” “Yes,” said I. “I did ask about it. It seems that the golf course is a private one, on the big estate we passed on the way from the station. Permission is always given the rectory tenants.”