So much, then, for Langley. Sketches completed, we now shoulder our knapsacks, and push briskly onwards again, dropping into a secluded lane that runs between low, wooded hills, in the direction of the south. Away upon the crest of the ridge to our right stands Frodesley Lodge, a singular looking pile of Tudor brickwork, with a great stone staircase running from top to bottom, and several large oak-panelled chambers. Down in the vale beyond lies Frodesley village, where Sir Herbert Edwardes, the hero of Mûltan, first saw the light, his father being rector of Frodesley at that time. The church was rebuilt in 1809, and is a fair sample of the dismal 'style' then in vogue, about the only relic of antiquity that has survived being the ancient parish register, the oldest in this county, dating from 1598. A mile or two to the westward lies Longnor, a pretty village with thatched, half-timbered cottages, rising with nonchalant irregularity beside the highway. Longnor Hall, a substantial red-brick structure, stands in the midst of a finely timbered park, in one corner whereof rises the early eighteenth-century chapel, a curious little edifice with the pigeon-hole pews of the 'churchwarden' era, and gates carefully locked lest, perchance, the lover of old things should spy out the nakedness of the land! [Illustration: Ancient Bridge on the "Devil's Causeway."] But we digress. Upon overhauling the Ordnance sheet, the name 'Devil's Causeway' whets one's curiosity, and puts one upon the qui vive for what may lie in store. Nor do we have long to wait, for, coming to a brook in the bottom of the vale, our lane is carried across it by a little round-arched stone bridge, showing unmistakable signs of antiquity. The lane, too, becomes as we proceed a veritable causeway, both it and the ancient bridge being rudely paved with large, thick, roughly squared flagstones, partly hidden beneath grass and weeds, and forming a kind of kerb above the ditch by the laneside. Tradition has it that this causeway marks the track of an old, old road, that in prehistoric times ran across country from the Watling Street, near Acton Burnell, to the Roman encampment at Nordy Bank, on the shoulder of Brown Clee Hill. Anent the origin of the bridge itself, an old countrywoman good-naturedly comes to our aid, and solves the riddle by explaining, 'It was the Devil as builded un up in one night, and when cock-crow come er dropped they stwuns down in a hurry out of's apern, and flew away to his own place.'