“The clerk has it,” she replied; “but he’s dead.” [Illustration: Chilcombe Church.] This answer well-nigh threw me into despair; but I determined to inquire at some neighbouring cottages. At one where I applied, the fair occupant also gave me a vague reply, saying that, “If it’s anywhere, Mrs. Solomons has it.” I observed that this little dwelling was in a very decrepit state. The ceiling, which a tall man might reach, was innocent of plaster, and made a sad exhibition of “ribs and trucks.” “This seems to be an old house,” I said. “Oh yes, sir, very,” she responded. “It has been for a long time falling down through the chimney,” she added, pointing to the wide hearth. Following her advice, I went to the former parsonage, close at hand, which I reached under a snow-white mass of fragrant clematis. There I obtained what I required and returned to the church. [Illustration: A CHILCOMBE TOMBSTONE.] This tiny sanctuary has a wooden bellcot for a tower, and the smallest east window I ever saw, inserted within the original Norman opening. There are three Norman arches here, some fifteenth-century tiles, and an old flat monumental slab, from which all but a large cross has been worn off by the feet of generations. And this is all that remains of the nine churches which once adorned Chilcombe! The lane leading to the church gradually dwindles to a footpath and crosses the downs to Morestead--a pleasant walk. I met some boys coming along it, carrying wallets full of nuts, with which the wayside abounds. On my return I diverged to the right along a green bridle path, and thus made a circuit of the hamlet. Before reaching Winchester (two miles) I passed a large tree standing up quite dead, a piteous skeleton, shining and bleaching in the sun. It had been struck with lightning, I was told. I never before saw such a sight; but in Australia, where the settlers pay the natives to ring-bark the trees, you may see forests of them raising up their bare arms to heaven, as if appealing against the treatment they had received. [Illustration: Saint Peter Cheesehill from above the Station.] Passing Chilcombe Lodge, with its cypresses, I came to an old inn called “The Brewers Arms,” and was told that a hostel formerly called “The Drum” had stood on this site for four hundred years. Close to it is the church of St. Peter’s Cheesehill. The people call it “Chisel”; it is named from gravel like the Chesil Beach near Weymouth. The church is square like St. John’s. It contains some handsome chalk niches, with heads carved under them, and there is a curious grating high up in the west wall for those in the adjoining house to hear the service. [Sidenote: Twyford.]