As I sat in our pew on the northern side of the church, I thought of the old Church Service that once was held there. After the Mass, I have read, it was usual that there should follow the hallowing of the branches and flowers by the priest. I thought, as I sat in church in Protestant England, of how the priest, up to the first half of the sixteenth century, and for long centuries before, stood forth in scarlet cope and blessed the sweet branches and the first flowers of the year. I liked to recall the old rite and custom of entreating the Almighty to bless and sanctify "his creatures," by which was meant branch and blossom, which were laid by lay brothers and novices at the foot of the altar, and then it was nice to think how branch and blossom were broken up and blest, and a spray given to all the devout people assembled. It was a pretty and holy usage, and I could not but feel regret, that so gracious a rite was lost. It must have been a delightful service for little children to witness, and a sweet memory for the old who could remember the happy springs of years gone by. As we came out of church, I told Bess about the old custom. And Bess said dryly, "Now we have to bless our palm branches ourselves;" and added with the strange intuition of a child, "I think it was better when God did part of it, don't you, mamsie?" [Sidenote: A STROLL IN THE CHURCHYARD] After the service, we took a stroll into the picturesque old churchyard, surrounded by old black and white timber, and Georgian houses of glowing red brick. There was standing by the door by which we entered the church, the remains of an old stone cross and several tombs, which, I have been told, were brought from the ruined Abbey Church. The grass was full of glittering daffodils, which shone like stars, and the scent from the ribes and Daphne bushes filled God's acre with sweetness. Bess and I walked round the churchyard. I told her of the little room over the church-porch with its little narrow window. Such a holy little room, I said. In such a room, I think, holy Master George Herbert must have written; and from that I went on to tell my little girl about Sir Thomas Botelar, the first priest who lived at Much Wenlock after the expulsion of the monks. [Illustration: _Photo by Mr. W. Golling._ SIR THOMAS BOTELAR'S HOUSE.] "Tell me about him," said Bess, eagerly. "I like to hear about good monks and priests from you, although Nana says they were all wicked, and walled up poor girls. But perhaps," added Bess, thoughtfully, "they were not all as wicked as she thinks; leastways, there may have been a few good ones just sometimes." After luncheon I took down the printed sheets in which are preserved Sir Thomas Botelar's entries, for, alas! his original manuscript perished in the great fire at Wynnstay in 1859. And I read aloud such passages as I thought my little girl would follow, at least in places.