'Prythee, sweetheart, then tell to me,
Oh, tell me whether you know
The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington?'
'She is dead, sir, long ago.'

'If she be dead, then take my horse,
My saddle and bridle also;
For I will into some far countrye
Where no man shall me know.'

'Oh, stay, oh stay, thou goodly youth,
She is standing by thy side;
She is here alive, she is not dead,
But ready to be thy bride.'"

I cannot read those old lines, crabbed and uncouth though they be, without something suspiciously like a mist before the eyes and a certain difficulty in the throat. "God forbid I should grieve any young hearts," says Miss Matty, in Cranford. Sentiment will have its way, deny it though you will.

Islington itself is, for these reasons, a place for pious pilgrimage. And a place difficult enough to find, for it is but an ancient church, a Park and Hall, and two cottages, approached through a farmyard. That is all of Islington, the sweet savour of whose ancient story of true love has gone forth to all the world, and to my mind hallows these miles more than footsteps of saints and pilgrims.

THE END

INDEX