be closed for ever; and the wanderer was no more to find a
home.

The body of the church was in many parts overgrown with
brambles and in all covered with a rank vegetation. It had
been a very sultry day, and the blaze of the meridian heat
still inflamed the air; the kine for shelter, rather than for
sustenance, had wandered through some broken arches, and were
lying in the shadow of the nave. This desecration of a spot,
once sacred, still beautiful and solemn, jarred on the
feelings of Egremont. He sighed and turning away, followed a
path that after a few paces led him into the cloister garden.
This was a considerable quadrangle; once surrounding the
garden of the monks, but all that remained of that fair
pleasaunce was a solitary yew in its centre, that seemed the
oldest tree that could well live, and was, according to
tradition, more ancient than the most venerable walls of the
Abbey. Round this quadrangle was the refectory, the library
and the kitchen, and above them the cells and dormitory of the
brethren. An imperfect staircase, not without danger, led to
these unroofed chambers; but Egremont familiar with the way
did not hesitate to pursue it, so that he soon found himself
on an elevation overlooking the garden, while further on
extended the vast cloisters of the monks, and adjoining was a
cemetery, that had once been enclosed, and communicated with
the cloister garden.

It was one of those summer days that are so still, that they
seem as it were a holiday of nature. The weary wind was
sleeping in some grateful cavern, and the sunbeams basking on