We first turn to the right, past some trim allotment gardens, then a sharp bend to the left brings us to the grand, wide, straight road which leads to the Norwich gates of Sandringham. Here on either side are grouped the fine old trees and leafy coverts, where the guns are usually placed for the last drive in the Prince’s big “shoots.” This, too, is the road down which, day after day, without state or ceremony, her only escort a smart young groom (or phaeton boy, as he is called in the stables), her usual equipage a tiny pony and cart, this latter familiarly known as the “Blues” cart, drives the sweet Princess with the noble face on her errands of grace and charity. Possibly the time may be about five o’clock, when the little dots of children are toiling along the sandy roads from school. Up pulls the little cart, down drops the smart groom, into the tiny vehicle are crammed as many of the lucky youngsters as can be compressed into so small a space. On go the happy load, each item to be duly delivered at its parents’ door with a pleasant smile and a pretty word of farewell from our gracious Princess. Or it may be that the call comes from age or sickness or sorrow. ’Tis all the same. At the door of the stricken cottage stands the same little cart, while within is the noble mistress administering with ungrudging hand the remedies, whether mental or physical, which she knows so well how to dispense. In sickness nothing is left to the underlings’ care. That which is adjudged best for the sufferer goes with the royal lady, and is dispensed by her own fair hands. So might it be with all our poor! Past the Norwich gates, almost the only emblem of royalty at Sandringham, we turn to the left by the East Lodge, a lovely little vision of living greenery, the pillars of its rustic porch being entirely composed of living box, and the building entirely hidden by ivies and Virginian creepers. Pretty as the picture is, we must turn away from it again to the left, and cross the road to get to our object, the dairy. Through the fruit and flower gardens, up the centre walk all ablaze with light and colour, with a great curious fountain in its centre, we go, past the long ranges of glass-houses with their luscious contents, the apple-trees trained to a tall cone shape on iron hoops, and their cousins the plums representing immense fans on a background of rich red-brick wall, until we arrive at a little secluded garden encircling the rustic dairy.