I had never imagined anything so beautiful as the drive up to Exeter on the top of a coach, with four stout horses, trotting at the rate of ten miles an hour.

It was the first day of June, and the country was in all its glory.

The foliage was of the softest green, the trees were covered with blossoms, and the shrubs with flowers.

The roads were perfect; the large, fine-looking coachman, with his white gloves and reins, his rosy face and lofty bearing and the postman in red, blowing his horn as we passed through every village, made the drive seem like a journey in fairyland.
We had heard that England was like a garden of flowers, but we were wholly unprepared for such wealth of beauty.
In Exeter we had our first view of one of the great cathedrals in the Old World, and we were all deeply impressed with its grandeur.

It was just at the twilight hour, when the last rays of the setting sun, streaming through the stained glass windows, deepened the shadows and threw a mysterious amber light over all.