miracles were claimed to have been wrought by the relics of the princess, who was famed for her piety.  The supposed value of these relics was the cause of the night raid on the tomb—­a practice not uncommon in the days of monkish supremacy.  The bones of saint or martyr had to be guarded with pious care or they were likely to be stolen by the enterprising churchmen of some rival establishment.  Shortly afterwards, it would transpire that miracles were being successfully performed by the relics in the hands of the new possessors.

Leaving the main road a detour of a few miles enabled us to visit Crowland Abbey shortly before reaching Peterborough.  It is a remarkable ruin, rising out of the flat fen country, as someone has said, “like a light-house out of the sea.”  Its oddly shaped tower is visible for miles, and one wide arch of the nave still stands, so light and airy in its gracefulness that it seems hardly possible it is built of heavy blocks of stone.  A portion of the church has been restored and is used for services, but a vast deal of work was necessary to arrest the settling of the heavy walls on their insecure foundations.  The cost of the restoration must have been very great, and the people of Crowland must have something of the spirit of the old abbey builders themselves, to have financed and carried out such a work.  Visitors to the church are given an opportunity to contribute to the fund—­a common thing in such cases.  Crowland is a gray, lonely little town in the midst of the wide fen country.  The streets were literally thronged with children of all ages; no sign of race suicide in this bit of Lincolnshire.  Everywhere is evidence of antiquity—­there is much far older than the old abbey in Crowland.  The most notable of all is the queer three-way arched stone bridge in the center of the village—­a remarkable relic of Saxon times.  It seems sturdy and solid despite the thousand or more years that have passed over it, and is justly counted one of the most curious antiques in the Kingdom.

It was late when we left Crowland, and before we had replaced a tire casing that, as usual, collapsed at an inopportune moment, the long English twilight had come to an end.  The road to Peterborough, however, is level and straight as an arrow.  The right of way was clear and all conditions gave our car opportunity to do its utmost.  It was about ten o’clock when we reached the excellent station hotel in Peterborough.

Before the advent of the railroad, Peterborough, like Wells, was merely an ecclesiastical town, with little excuse for existence save its cathedral.  In the last fifty years, however, the population has increased five-fold and it has become quite on important trading and manufacturing center.  It is situated in the midst of the richest farm country in England and its annual wool and cattle markets are known throughout the Kingdom.  The town dates from the year 870, when the first cathedral minster was built by the