2 AN ANGLER'S HOURS i 



their little hopes and aspirations, have wept 

 their little tears, for a moment's space, and 

 then have passed. It has known the strange 

 cowled race who in the service of God 

 spent their days and nights in fast and vigil, 

 and whose solemn Oremus was the only 

 sound that broke the stillness of the old grey 

 walls. Others too it has known. Plumed 

 and booted and spurred, the haughty noble 

 has strutted his brief span through its courts 

 and passages ; the thrifty merchant has wak- 

 ened the silence of night with the clink of 

 gold, less perishable than himself in spite 

 of all the philosophers. These and many 

 more have added their little paragraphs to 

 the history of the ancient house, and it 

 groans anew as it considers the futility of 

 man and his works. And now there are 

 new inmates : little feet that dance and 

 cause many an ache to its venerable timbers, 

 little voices that shout and sing and bid un- 

 conscious defiance to destroying Time. And 

 indeed for them Time seems to stand still, 

 leaning on his scythe, as though he knew 

 that before one thing he was powerless, the 

 eternal spirit of youth. The old house has 

 no love for youth. It groans and creaks 



