I found Bell a very amusing companion in walks and excursions we took to fairs and sales for the purchase of stock.  He knew the histories and peculiarities of all the farmers and country people whose land or houses we passed, and his stories made the miles very short.  I often helped with driving sheep and cattle home, and their persistence in taking all the wrong turnings or in doubling back was surprising; but two drovers are much more efficient than one, and we got to know exactly where they would need circumventing.  When we visited a town I always took him to an inn or restaurant and gave him a good dinner.  Visiting what was then a much-frequented dining-place—­Mountford’s, at Worcester, near the cathedral—­we sat next to a well-known hon. and rev. scholar of eccentric habits.  He would read abstractedly, forgetting his food for several minutes, then suddenly would make a noisy dash for knife and fork, resuming the meal with great energy for a while, and as suddenly relinquish the implements and return to his reading, and so on continuously.  I noticed Bell watching with great surprise, much shocked at such unusual table manners, and presently he could not forbear very gently nudging my elbow to draw my attention to the performance.

Mountford’s was celebrated for succulent veal cutlets with fried bacon and tomato sauce, also for Severn salmon and lamperns; visitors to the cathedral and china works generally refreshed themselves there, and it was amusing to watch their exhausted and grim looks when entering and waiting, in comparison with their beaming smiles when confessing their indulgences on leaving; for no bills were rendered, and guests were trusted to remember the details consumed.  You will always find the best eating-houses near the cathedrals; vergers’ recitals are apt to be long-winded, and visitors require speedy refreshment after a complete round.

It was a popular village belief that bad luck follows if a woman was the first to enter a house on Christmas morning, and Bell always made a point of being the first over my threshold, shouting loudly his greetings up the staircase.

Bell’s wife survived him, living on in the same cottage in which he was born and had passed his life.  She was a hard-working woman, and came over to my house once a week for some years to bake the bread, made from my own wheat ground at the village mill.  It was somewhat dark in colour, owing to the most nutritious parts of the grain being retained in the flour, but it was deliciously sweet and kept fresh for the whole week.  I only wish everyone could enjoy the same sort; the modern bread is poor stuff by comparison, and its lack of nutritive value is undoubtedly the cause of much of the poor physique of our rural and urban population at the present time.