20 GARDENS OF ENGLAND 



flower-heads lie drying on the broad seat of the 

 lattice window, and as we venture to lift the lid of 

 the capacious oak-chest or peep into the " aumry " 

 — that pretty old word -relic of France which 

 still lingers in Scotland, if not farther South — we 

 catch a glimpse of piles of household linen, mostly 

 home spun, ready for the fresh lavender to be laid 

 lovingly between the folds by gentle mother-hands 

 while it waits the time when son or daughter shall 

 fare forth from the parent rooftree to a nest of 

 their own. All this is now but an echo of the 

 past, though the faint refrain of it all abides with 

 us still. Alas, no village inn can boast of its 

 lavender-scented bed-linen as in the coaching days 

 now far off. The broad oak staircases and bright 

 polished furniture, the cosy carven settles and the 

 rare old china beau - pots filled as the seasons 

 came round with snowdrops or lilies of the valley, 

 with damask roses, or, daintier far, white roses of 

 Provence — all these, and lavender bushes amongst 

 them — which used to be the pride of countless 

 old-fashioned hostelries, where are they? Little 

 is left of them but shadowy memories put away 

 in the inmost recesses of our thoughts, and only 

 brought out now and then with the same sense of 

 half-pitying. condescension with which we unfold 



