The lonely dwelling to the westward was until lately used as the rectory house; an unpretending edifice, whose weather-stained coating of rough-cast partially conceals rows of old corbels, and other half-obliterated features. Looking hence across Monkton Pill we have a fine view of the castle, with its picturesque array of broken towers and bastions, and a quaint old stone pigeon-cot down in the valley which formed an appendage to that lordly _ménage_. While enjoying this goodly scene, a summer shower sweeps up from the sea, and robs us for a time of the enchanting prospect: but ere long the old fortress reappears beneath a brilliant arc of rainbow, glowing in borrowed splendours under the warm rays of the declining sun. * * * * * 'Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund Day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops,' as we fare cheerily forth, on the morrow's morn, to explore the remoter recesses of that secluded district ycleped the Stackpole Country. Our footsteps echo loudly as we trudge through Pembroke's deserted street, where as yet a few half-awakened housemaids, and labouring men going to their day's work, are the only signs of life. Nearing the railway-station we turn aside into a narrow, tortuous lane; cross the stream that fed the old town moat and, passing a water-mill beside a disused limestone quarry, we strike up the steady ascent of Windmill Hill; catching _en route_ a glimpse of the time-worn steeple of St. Daniel's Church, now used merely as a cemetery chapel. Upon winning the crest of the ridge the country opens out ahead, showing a cluster of tall church towers clear against the skyline; and then we drop sharply down one of those short, steep 'pinches' that make such heavy work for the horses hereabouts. Groups of country-folk jaunt by to market in carts of primitive build, propelled by strong, well-cared-for looking donkeys; and thus, _a poco a poco_ as they say in Italy, we work our passage through quiet, unfrequented byways startling a shy rabbit here and there, or flushing a buxom partridge and her brood from beneath our very feet. Now and again we pause to catch the throstle's mellow song, or to watch the easy movements of a pair of sparrow-hawks, as they wheel in slow, graceful gyrations through the air. By-and-by we come to Cheriton; a tiny hamlet with a comely church, whose tall, ivy-clad tower rises from a wooded dell. In the churchyard stands an ancient cross smothered in creepers, and the stepping-block for those who rode to church in bygone days. [Illustration: SIR ELIDUR DE STACKPOLE.] In the north wall of the chancel, beneath a handsome, canopied recess of somewhat unusual character, lies the effigy of its reputed founder, Sir Elidur de Stackpole.