archway, with an equally narrow entrance. If, in the old days, anybody had been turned loose in this small area, and the doors of both archways locked, they might well have given up the ghost, so far as their ultimate freedom was concerned. "Why Washhouse Court?" I asked, conceding in my mind the possibility of stringing clotheslines, but in doubt about the tubs. "Because it is! I have a couple of shirts in there now," and he pointed to a framing of low windows and wooden doors, level with the rough stone pavement. "The linen of our old friend, the Colonel, came here too. We have mangles and all sorts of funny machines now, but in his days it was just plain elbow-grease, knuckles, and plenty of soap. Then it was known as "Laundry Court," and, in addition to a washhouse, boasted a brewhouse, a kitchen, bakehouse, and fishhouse. Since then as you can see, the trowel and chisel of the restorers, have patched up the holes that time and neglect have made, but much of the old wall, especially that part above the archway, is quite as it appeared in 1572 to the Duke of Norfolk the day he was arrested in the great Hall, behind which I live, for conspiracy against his Queen." By this time we had dived under the archway seen in my sketch, passed through still another open space, and found ourselves at last in the little ante-chapel leading to the chapel itself. Again I was on holy ground! Here the Colonel had walked to and from chapel service, and in the same black Pensioner's cloak that Ethel had kissed. Here, too, when the organ had played them out of chapel at length, Pendennis, with heavy heart, had strolled with him on his way back to his room. "And I take it uncommonly kind of you," the Colonel, with flushed, wan face, had said, "and I thank God for you, sir. Why, sir, I am as happy as the day is long." This ante-chapel is but little changed, and, judging from the uneven surfaces of the several panes of glass in the queer sashes with rounded tops, the windows looking out upon the adjoining court, must be the same as those that lighted the Colonel's way. Nor can there be any doubt that the flooring of stone slabs, marking the graves of the long-ago dead, was the very same which had reëchoed the sound of his footfalls. There was a new tablet, of course, on the opposite wall - several of them in fact, one bearing the name of the Colonel's creator and another that of John Leech, his dear friend and brother Carthusian — or Cistercian, as Thackeray chooses to call them. And there were still others, bearing the names of Sir Henry Havelock, John Wesley, Roger Williams (founder of Rhode Island), and various distinguished Carthusians, many of which the Colonel must have looked on as he walked bareheaded to his prayers. Morning service was over when we entered, and that cold hush, which one sometimes feels on entering an empty church, greeted us - not the hush of death, but rather one of sleep. Even the effigy of old Thomas Sutton, to whose princely munificence the Brothers owe their homes and support, appeared to be more asleep than dead these two hundred years. And so did the organ, high up above my head; and the prayer-books lining the ledges of the pews all seemed quietly dozing. It has every right to go to sleep if it pleases, this relic of the Carthusian Monks, for most of it dates back to the middle of the fourteenth century. Since that time the north and west walls have been rebuilt, and the open arches erected by Thomas Sutton's executors, to make room for his remains. As in the Colonel's day, so now: "The chapel is lighted, and the Founders' Tomb, with its grotesque carvings, monsters, heraldries, darkles and shines with the most wonderful shadows and lights. There he lies, Fundator Noster, in his ruff and gown, awaiting the great Examination Day." In the pavement near by, there is, among others, the gravestone of Thomas Walker, Head Master 1679-1728, who had Addison, Steel, and Wesley for his pupils. In the belfry above, hangs the great bell, recast in 1631. This tolls the curfew at 8 P. M. in winter, and 9 P. M. in summer, the number of its strokes corresponding to that of the Brothers within the hospital. It was to the strokes of this very bell that Thomas Newcome's hand kept time, beating feebly outside his bed. I was not sorry that just here my friend and guide bade a service to hold in a me good-bye. He had work to do small church outside the grounds, so he told me with a certain pride in his voice, as if reminding me that he was not wholly dependent on the charity of the old fellow whose bones were enclosed in the marble tomb. I, too, had work to do. I had memories and traditions and scenes out of my boyhood days to talk over with myself, and I had a |