finding the parish church there in a dilapidated condition, piously determined to rebuild it at his own cost, and obtained licence to erect beside it a priory "of the Order of the Holy Trinity for the Redemption of Captives."

A knight who distinguished himself in the eyes of such a king, and who was among the companions in arms of the redoubtable Black Prince, must have been no carpet warrior. Sir Miles was chosen one of the first Knights of the Garter upon the institution of that Order in 1349,* and since then he had had plenty of hard fighting, having probably done his part in the glorious fields of Cressy and Poitiers.

But the year 1360 saw peace concluded at Bretigny between France and England, and so

* The plate of his arms is still remaining in his stall in St. George's Chapel, Windsor.

the gallant knight could lay aside his war-worn armour, and in the retirement of his manor-house at Ingham plan out his peaceful work of Church restoration and extension.

And well he did it. Whatever may have been his motives, the work itself was done nobly, liberally, and in most excellent taste. He must have freely given pounds where an ordinary landowner of the nineteenth century would have groaned over a shilling. The lofty and elegant tower of Ingham Church still stands forth unrivalled among the churches of the neighbourhood to attest the taste and bounty of its founder; and though many years of shameful neglect-far worse than superstition-have brought the noble fabric into a state of melancholy decay and dilapidation, yet the beauty of its form shines through all disguise, just as rags even cannot hide true nobility of

nature.

It was a coincidence that may have some significance as we proceed with our story, that about the time the Church and Priory of Ingham were built, the distant rumbling of two very different storms was heard: in the east, the Saracens had begun their terrible inroads upon Europe, that filled the Christian world with alarm; in the West, the voice of Wickliffe was being first lifted up at Oxford in protest against Romish error, from which men needed to be redeemed more than from any Turkish bondage.

The solemn dedication was over, the voice of the preacher who, like another Peter the Hermit, had preached the gospel of extermination to the infidel, had died away, when a little group of persons was gathered round the magnificent new tomb (on the north side of the chancel) that had been the "cynosure of all eyes" that day.

One of them was John de Pevesey, sacrist of

the Priory, to whom was committed the spiritual charge of the parish-the "cure of souls," as the weighty saying is-and who had been doing his best to gratify his new parishioners by showing them all the beauties of their renovated Church. A comfortable face was John de Pevesey's, a smooth, clear-complexioned, shining face, in perfect and pleasant harmony with a polished bald head upon which nature had early bestowed the tonsure in measure fit for at least an abbot. It was one of those faces to which you instantly surrender your confidence, though they leave you uncertain as to the degree of their intelligence: and his face was a true index of his character. So bright a countenance was yet further set off by the white robe of his Order, with a cross on the breast in red and blue.

"So this is the grand tomb of Sir Oliver!" said a voice with a thin metallic sound in it that was

very disagreeable: "well, they have been a long time making it for him: it must be nigh upon twenty years ago since he came home from the wars to die. I remember how ill he looked the last time I saw him at mass, like a man who had worn himself out: a stern fierce man always was Sir Oliver, one that dearly loved a fray."

The speaker was an old woman, by her dress a well-to-do poor person, by her looks hard, plausible, and with a large amount of funded bad temper, by name Mistress Ann Winfarthing.

"Was Sir Oliver an old man when he died?" enquired the sacrist.

He was

"He looked old enough-much older than he was," she replied; "but he was worn out. always away fighting somewhere ever since the time he was in such favour with poor silly Edward, the king's father, God bless him. But what is that writing on the tomb, father?"