She it is who greets the coming and speeds the parting guest with a grace which suns, with equal light and warmth, both remembrance and anticipation.

It is not put on like a Sunday dress; it is not a thin gloss of French politeness that a feather, blown the wrong way, will brush off.

It is not a color; it is a quality.

You see it breathe and move in her like a nature, not as an art.

Let no American traveller fancy he has seen England if he has not seen the Landlady of the village inn.