‘What your uncle says is very true, Maggie,’ he quietly remarked. ‘This must have been Shakespeare’s favourite walk, for love never goes by the high road when it can take the footpath. The smell of that bean-field, the odour of the hay of that very meadow, may have come to his nostrils as it comes to ours. His heart as he drew nigh to yonder village must have beat as mine beats, because he knew his love was near him.’ ‘There is the cottage,’ cried Mr. Erin excitedly, pointing in front of him, and addressing his niece. ‘Is it not picturesque, with its old timbers and its mossy roof?’ ‘It will make an excellent illustration for your book,’ observed Frank Dennis the practical. ‘It has been illustrated already pretty often,’ returned the other drily, ‘or we should not recognise it so easily.’ ‘Let us hope it’s the right one,’ muttered William Henry, ‘for it will be poor I who will have to suffer for it if it is not.’ Fortunately, however, there was no mistake. They stepped across the little brook, and stood in the garden with its well and its old-world flowers. Before them was the orchard ‘for whispering lovers made,’ and on the right the low vine-clad cottage with the settle, or courting-seat, at its door. Here Shakespeare came to win and woo his wife; whatever doubt may be thrown on his connection with any other dwelling, that much is certain. On the threshold of the cottage Mr. Erin took off his hat, not from courtesy, for he was not overburdened with politeness, but from the same reverence with which he had doffed it at the church. He entered without noticing whether he was followed by the others or not. A descendant of Anne Hathaway’s, though not of her name, received him; fit priest for such a shrine. That he had not read a line of Shakespeare in no way detracted from his sacred character. Frank Dennis, himself not a little moved, went in likewise. As Margaret was following him, William Henry gently laid his hand upon her wrist and led her to the settle, which was very ancient and worm-eaten. ‘Sit here a moment, Maggie; this is the very seat, as Mr. Jervis tells me, on which Shakespeare sat with her who became his wife. Here, on some summer afternoon like this, perhaps, he told her of his love.’ Margaret trembled, but sat down. ‘It is amazing to think of it,’ she said; ‘he must have looked on those same trees, and on this very well.’ ‘But he did not look at _them_, Maggie,’ said the young man tenderly; ‘he looked at the face beside him, as I am looking now, and I will wager that it was not so fair a face.’ ‘What nonsense you talk, Willie! Why do you not give yourself up as your—as Mr. Erin does—to the associations of the place? They are so interesting.’