“This is better,” said Wynnette, as they drove slowly on between the green hedges.
“We be noo at back o’ Fell Hall. And yon’s t’ steeple o’ t’ church,” the coachman volunteered to explain, as he pointed to the spire which rose above a clump of trees on their left.
They soon reached the entrance of the churchyard and passed in.
The church stood on an eminence, which they had been gradually climbing all the way from Angleton.
It was a very picturesque building of ancient English type—moss-grown and ivy-covered from base to pinnacle, until not a bit of its walls or roof could be seen. Many ancient gravestones, gray with age, sunk in long grass and covered with moss, clustered around it.
“Is the church open to visitors?” inquired Mr. Force of the driver, as they drew up to the closed and formidable-looking, iron-bound oaken doors.
“Oy, maister! It be t’ show o’ t’ place, be Anglewood Old Church.”
They all alighted from the rough carriage and stood on the flagstones of the church porch, and looked around them. The sun was in the west now, and shining on the grass-grown yard and the moss-covered gravestones.
“Are any of the Anglesea family buried out here?” inquired Mr. Force.
“Oot here? Laird, no, maister! They be all in t’ vault. And none ha’ been put into t’ groond here, even of t’ common folk, in my toime! They be took to t’ simitry.”