"Did Shakespeare fall over that stile when he was trying to climb it with the deer, and did they catch him then?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes, that's the story, and, of course, we know it is true! Now, come this way to the gatehouse. I was able to get permission, through an influential friend, to take you inside. I am so glad, for not every one has such good fortune. This woodland," motioning to the fine old oaks, as they sped along, "is also a part of the ancient Forest of Arden. That wood was so dense in this county in the thirteenth century, that the King ordered the Constable of Warwickshire to cut down six acres in breadth between Warwick and Coventry, to insure the greater safety of travelers."

They were now getting distant glimpses of the fine Elizabethan residence itself. It was built in 1558, the year of Elizabeth's accession to the throne, and was made in the general shape of the letter E, in honor of that Queen. The color of the ancient bricks has been softened and beautified by the hand of Time, which has also caused heavy vines to grow upon, and in certain places, almost to cover the walls. The different courts, gateways, and gables, are therefore most picturesque. The present owner, a descendant of the Sir Thomas Lucy whom Shakespeare knew and ridiculed, permits visitors (the privileged few) to see the Great Hall and the library.

The former is the most interesting of all the apartments, for here one stands in the very room where Shakespeare is said to have been questioned by the pompous Sir Thomas Lucy, after the deer-stealing episode. This lofty hall has a slight modern atmosphere about it now, but the dark paneling, bits of really old glass in the windows, and, above all, the bust of Shakespeare, recall the past very vividly to mind.

Most historians admit that there is some truth in the story that Shakespeare came into unpleasant contact with the Lord of Charlecote, through a more or less serious boyish prank; but not all believe that there can be any truth in the statement that he was brought into the Great Hall by the forester who caught up with him at the "Tumble-down Stile." It may be, however, that Shakespeare was later on friendly terms with the Lucy family, and so it is possible that he was then entertained in the hall.

"You know," remarked Mrs. Pitt, "that the disgrace of that affair with Sir Thomas Lucy is thought to have caused Shakespeare to leave his native town and go to seek his fortune in far-away London. Therefore the prank is said by some to have been a most important, though seemingly trivial event in the Poet's life. Shakespeare's revenge upon the owner of lovely Charlecote came later, when he very plainly described Sir Thomas in his plays, under the name of 'Justice Shallow.'"

Another room at Charlecote is very attractive,—that is, the old library. There is preserved some wonderful inlaid furniture which tradition describes as a gift from Queen Elizabeth to Leicester, and which consequently would once have found a place at Kenilworth Castle. A very charming view of the lawn sloping gently down to the river is seen from the library windows.

Within the precincts of Charlecote is a beautiful church which was erected by Mrs. Henry Spenser Lucy, in 1852, upon the site of an ancient chapel. Here there are huge tombs in memory of three Lucys, and also an interesting monument to the wife of Sir Thomas, with its tribute to her lovely character, supposed to have been written by Shakespeare's "Justice Shallow" himself, who seems at least to have been a devoted husband. This last-mentioned monument was originally a part of the older edifice, of course.

It was now about noon, and they were feeling rather hungry, so at a short distance from Charlecote they selected an inviting place by the roadside, and there they unpacked the lunch which Mrs. Pitt had brought. How good it did taste! They all thoroughly enjoyed the picnic, and when a scarlet automobile went rushing past them, the ladies' veils fluttering in the breeze, Betty merely remarked:—"An auto's lovely, of course, but to-day I'd rather have a bicycle. It seems more appropriate, somehow."

"Yes," Mrs. Pitt responded. "When you are in such a beautiful county as this, and want to see it well, a bicycle is best. And then, I think it is more respectful to Shakespeare to go through his beloved haunts at a fairly leisurely pace. I imagine that he never would have understood how any one could care so little for Warwickshire as to go whirling and jiggling along through it in a motor, at thirty miles an hour."

Betty had absent-mindedly picked a daisy from the tall grass in which she was sitting, and was pulling off its petals, reciting the little verse about:

"Rich man, Poor man, Beggar man, Thief."

"Oh, dear! It's thief!" she cried, making up a wry face. "I'd rather have any one than that!"

"Try the other verses," suggested Barbara, entering into the fun.

"What others?" asked Betty in much surprise. "I didn't know there were any more."

"Dear me, yes," Mrs. Pitt broke in. "I used to know several of them myself,—the one about the house:

'Big house, Little house, Pig-stye, Barn,'

and about the conveyances:

'Coach, Carriage, Spring-cart, Wheelbarrow.'

Wasn't there one more, Barbara? Oh, yes, about the dress materials:

'Silk, Satin, Muslin, Rags.'"

"Well, well!" exclaimed Betty. "I never heard those. They must be just English."

"Perhaps so. At any rate, when I was a little girl, I used to say them, and believe in them, too. I lived here in Warwickshire, in my childhood, you know; my father was rector of a tiny village not far from Coventry. There are ever so many queer old rhymes, verses, and customs still common among Warwickshire children."

"Tell Betty about some of them, Mother," Barbara urged. "I'm sure that she'd like to hear, and we don't need to start on just yet."

Mrs. Pitt leaned thoughtfully against the lowered bars, at the entrance to a field. "I'll have to think about it," she said; but she soon added, "There was the 'Wishing Tree.' I remember that."

"What was it?" the two girls eagerly questioned. John and Philip, privately considering this talk "silly stuff," had retired to the farther side of a hay-rick, where they were whittling industriously.

"The 'Wishing Tree' was a large elm that stood in the park of a neighboring nobleman's estate. To all the girls of the village, it was a favorite spot, and we used to steal through the hedge and very cautiously approach the tree. If the cross old gardener happened to see us he'd come limping in our direction as fast as his lame legs could carry him, calling out angrily that if we did not 'shog off right away, he'd set his ten commandments in our faces.' That's an odd expression, isn't it? It's very, very old,—so old that Shakespeare was familiar with it and used it in one of his plays—'King Henry VI,' I think. The gardener meant that he would scratch us with his ten fingers—but he wouldn't have, for he was too kind-hearted in spite of his threats. He was a queer man, with a brown, wrinkled old face. I can see him just as though it were yesterday."

"What was that you said?" asked Betty. "'Shog off!' What does it mean?"

"Simply Warwickshire for 'Go away,'" was Mrs. Pitt's careless answer. Her thoughts had gone back to her childhood.

"You forgot to tell us what the 'Wishing Tree' was for," Betty timidly suggested, fearful of interrupting her reminiscences.

"Why, so I did! We would tiptoe all alone up to the tree, and if, under its wide branches, we made a wish, we thought it was sure to come true. There was another curious old game of finding out how many years we were to live, by a ball. We would bounce it upon the hard ground, and catching it again and again in our hands, would chant all the while:

'Ball-ee, ball-ee, tell me true, How many years I've got to go through, One, two, three, four,—'

If that had proved true, I shouldn't be here to-day to tell of it, for I was never very skillful with the ball, and could only catch it ten or fifteen times at the most."

Mrs. Pitt laughed. "There is so much of ancient folk-lore here in Warwickshire," she went on. "I remember that the old country people always crossed themselves or said some charm for a protection, when one lone magpie flew over their heads. That meant bad luck, for the verses said:

'For one magpie means sorrow, Two, mirth, Three, a wedding, And four, a birth.'

Why, what is it, Barbara?"

Barbara had jumped to her feet, and was wildly waving her arms about her head. "It's only a bee," she said, rather ashamed. "I don't like them quite so near."

It was delightful to ride along on this "rare day in June," through the fair county of Warwickshire,—the "Heart of England." If they were just a bit uncomfortably warm on the hill-top where the sun beat down upon the fields and open road, they were soon again in the beautiful woodland, where the cool air refreshed them, or passing through the street of some remote village, shaded by giant elms. In each little hamlet, as well as the row of peaceful thatched cottages, with smoke curling upwards from their chimneys, there was the ancient vine-covered church, with perhaps a Norman tower, where the rooks found a home, and the gray old rectory close at hand.

When Betty asked if it was in a church "like this" that Mrs. Pitt's father preached, and if her former home resembled the particular rectory they then chanced to be passing, Mrs. Pitt replied, "Yes, my home was somewhat like this one. All English country churches and rectories look very much alike,—that is, almost all are vine-covered, and very old and quaint—yet, I think each has its own very distinct individuality, too."

Mrs. Pitt, of course, wanted some tea, so about four o'clock they stopped at a clean little cottage, near a stretch of woodland. Mrs. Pitt herself dismounted and stepped up to the door, which stood hospitably open. A little flaxen-haired child ran out curiously at the sound of the knock, and then, frightened, scampered away to call her mother. That good woman, in her neat black dress and stiffly-starched white apron, at once understood the situation.

"You just seat yourselves there under the trees," she ordered them, "and I'll bring right out a shive off a loaf of bread, and a tot o' tea for each of you."

The young people looked puzzled at this speech, but Mrs. Pitt smilingly led the way to the place their hostess designated. In a surprisingly short time the woman brought out a table (having scorned the assistance of the two boys), spread it with an immaculately clean cloth, and set thereon a very tempting loaf of brown bread and a pot of steaming tea. There was also jam, of course. While they enjoyed their meal, she stood by, her hands on her hips, and a radiant smile upon her face at the praises of her guests. Every few moments the little girl would peep out from behind the cottage, and once she almost came up to the group under the trees; but her mother, when she spied her, sent her hastily back, saying by way of an apology:—"She's all swatched, but she's only my reckling, you must know." As they rode away into the woods, the good woman stood in the middle of the road waving her table-cloth for good-by.

"Wasn't she a dandy!" John burst out. "Couldn't understand what she said, though! Might just as well have been Greek!"

"She certainly did have some old Warwickshire expressions!" laughed Mrs. Pitt. "I don't know when I've heard that word 'reckling.' It simply means her youngest child, who she said was all 'swatched.' That signifies being untidy, but I am sure I couldn't see the tiniest spot of dirt anywhere upon the child."

Betty was rather glad when they at last jumped off their bicycles at the hotel in Leamington.

"I guess I'm not used to quite such long rides as you," she said. "It has been beautiful, though, and I wouldn't have come by train for anything. I just love Warwickshire, and everything about it, especially the language, which I mean to learn while I am here."



CHAPTER THIRTEEN

WARWICK AND KENILWORTH CASTLES

The bicycles were returned to their owner in Stratford, and Mrs. Pitt's plan was to drive to Warwick and Kenilworth the following day. Consequently it was a great disappointment at breakfast-time to see gray and threatening clouds overhead, from which rain very soon began to descend. The day was also very cold, and such a chilling wind was blowing and whistling around the corners of the hotel, that fires were lighted in all the tiny grates.

"Whoever heard of such cold weather in June!" John protested, not in the best of spirits at being shut up in the house. "It's horrid, I say! Ugh! If my fur coat was here, I should put it on, and then get inside the fireplace, too."

At this very dismal burst of feeling from John, Mrs. Pitt came to the rescue, suggesting a game of billiards. John brightened very considerably after this, and the remainder of the day was pleasantly spent in writing letters, playing games, and reading aloud from Scott's "Kenilworth," in preparation for the morrow's visit to that castle.

"Just think of seeing the very spot in the garden where Queen Elizabeth met Amy Robsart! And perhaps the same room where she slept. Oh, I can hardly wait till morning!" sighed Betty rapturously. "Kenilworth" had long been one of her favorite books.

At bedtime Mrs. Pitt, inwardly rather uncertain about the prospects of the weather, was outwardly most cheerful with her assurance that she "felt sure it would be fine in the morning."

Mrs. Pitt was "usually right about things," as the children had long since discovered, and this proved no exception to the rule. The sun shone brightly on the morrow, and the whole country-side looked as though it had been washed and cleaned so as to appear at its loveliest for the visitors.

The drive through Leamington revealed a very pretty watering-place, with baths, parks, gay streets of shops, and many neat little private villas, each being dignified by a name.

"How do they ever find names enough to go around?" Betty thought to herself.

They soon left the town behind, and a short drive along the perfectly smooth, wide, country road, brought them to the well-known bridge over the Avon, and revealed the fact that the river had not lost a bit of its beauty since they left it at the Weir Brake. It is from this bridge that the famous view of Warwick Castle is to be had, and a more charming picture cannot well be imagined. Just at a bend of the river, the great gray front looms up, long and straight, the turrets here and there giving it a most formidable air of old-time majesty and strength.

Leaving the carriage at the castle entrance, Mrs. Pitt led the way up the narrow walk, bounded by high walls of rock, to which the damp moss clings and over which flowers and trailing vines hang. Finally they passed under an old gateway with a portcullis, and found themselves in the inner court-yard of the castle, which is almost round in shape. Old towers or buildings very nearly surround this court, and in the center is a wonderfully smooth grass-plot, which is sometimes used as a tennis-court. Several stately peacocks strutted about displaying their magnificent feathers. They were very tame, and almost allowed Betty to come near enough to touch them. She was delighted when the largest most obligingly dropped a gorgeous feather at her very feet.

"For a souvenir!" she exclaimed, as she picked it up. "How dear of him! I like peacocks even if they are proud! I would be, if I lived here! They know how important they are, and that this garden wouldn't be complete without them."



"Do you see that high mound?" asked Mrs. Pitt, pointing to the northern end of the court. "There AEthelflaed, the daughter of Alfred the Great, is supposed to have built a castle, and thus the history of Warwick may be said to have commenced in 914. Just fancy! Since that day, many great families have been in possession here (De Newburghs, Beauchamps, Nevilles, Plantagenets),—from traditional Guy of Warwick to 'Warwick the King-maker,' and all along the line to the Greville family, which has owned it since 1759. 'Warwick the King-maker,' or Richard Neville, was the famous baron who possessed such wonderful power in England that he could make and unmake kings at his will. It was he who captured poor, weak Edward IV, and brought him here as a prisoner. Of Guy of Warwick, the great warrior and hero, I shall tell you more when we are at Guy's Cliff, where he lived. He is really more associated with that place than this. You will see here, however, what is known as 'Guy's Porridge Pot.' It is an interesting old vessel, very large and made of metal. Most probably it had nothing whatever to do with the great Guy; some authorities consider, because of the existence of this little rhyme, that it belonged to a certain Sir John Talbot, who died about 1365.

'There is nothing left of Talbot's name, But Talbot's pot and Talbot's Lane.'

But let's go over to that door by which we enter. There comes a guide with his party; perhaps we can go in with them."

They found the interior of Warwick Castle very delightful, and in a perfect state of preservation, for the family of the present Earl occupy it often. The ever-present Great Hall is here more grand and lofty than that of Charlecote, though it has not the appearance of as great antiquity as the one at beautiful Penshurst Place. Its walls are lined with old suits of armor, but, nevertheless, the room is furnished with comfortable easy-chairs, as the family, when in residence, use this as their living-room. Among the collection of armor is the helmet of Oliver Cromwell, and a whole miniature suit of mail which was once worn by the little dwarfed son of Robert Dudley, the famous Earl of Leicester. In a great bay-window, overlooking the Avon, stands the huge caldron of Guy of Warwick. Strangely enough, an exquisite Elizabethan saddle of green velvet had found a temporary resting-place in its great depths.

"I think this Cedar Room is very beautiful," remarked Mrs. Pitt, as they stepped into that apartment. "Do you see that the walls are entirely of cedar wood from floor to ceiling? Isn't the effect rich, and doesn't it smell good? Do you notice the fine carving, and the pictures,—some of Van Dyck's best works? Oh! I must not call your attention to so many things all at once!"

In the Green Drawing-room, the Red Drawing-room, the State Bed-room, and the various other rooms and corridors, are priceless treasures of art; for besides invaluable paintings by the greatest masters, there are here beautiful pieces of furniture, made of tortoise-shell and inlaid with gold or pearl, and ancient marriage-chests, which once belonged to Italian princesses of bygone days. The armory contains one of the most valuable collections in England, and in the State Bed-room are many relics of Queen Anne. One really wearies of so much costliness which it is utterly impossible to appreciate at one visit.

"Haven't we time to walk in the gardens a little longer?" asked Barbara, wistfully. To her, Nature was nearer and dearer than all the wonders of art and history.

After a ramble through the bewitchingly lovely gardens,—going across ancient drawbridges, spanning long-unused, grass-grown moats; under little postern-gates; into rustic grottoes—they at last came to the conservatory, in which is preserved the "Warwick Vase." This is made of white marble, carved with various devices.

"It has a curious history," answered Mrs. Pitt, in reply to the children's questions. "In 1770, some workmen found it at the bottom of a small lake which is about sixteen miles from Rome. Of course, it is not possible to determine with any certainty how it came to be there, but as Hadrian's Villa was in A.D. 546 occupied by a king of the Goths, an enemy who was then laying siege to Rome, it has been thought that the vase was cast into the lake, to save it from the hands of the invaders. The second Earl of Warwick was its purchaser."

Slowly and unwillingly they wended their way back through the gardens, to the central court of the castle, and then out under the old gateway.

"My!" cried John, "it must have taken heaps of soldiers to defend a place like this in the Middle Ages! I wish I'd been here when it was just plumb full of great warriors,—when the moat had water in it, the drawbridge worked, and sentinels called out to you for the password as you came near the gate. I suppose they could peep out at you from those little windows up high, too." John looked longingly back, as they walked away.

"Oh, yes!" continued Mrs. Pitt, in tones which made the girls shudder. "From those windows they rained shot down upon the enemy. And there are little slits in the wall from which men poured boiling metal or tar upon those besieging the castle. Upon the roof of Guy's Tower there, it is thought that a huge machine used to stand,—a machine for slinging down great stones. Oh, yes; there were dungeons here, too,—deep, dark, damp, and evil-smelling dungeons, into which many prisoners were thrown. Why, it was from here that Piers Gaveston, the unfortunate favorite courtier of Edward II, was taken out and executed upon a hill close by. Underneath the fine halls where splendid banquets were carried on, out of sight and reach of the fair gardens and lawns, there were always poor prisoners who were shut away from the daylight for years perhaps, and laboriously carving crests or verses in the stone walls, to while away the hours."

Mrs. Pitt suddenly burst into peals of laughter as she saw the pained expressions upon the faces of the two girls; then a glance at the rapt, enthusiastic attention of John, caused her to become serious again.

"Never mind, girls," she said gravely. "Such things are now gone forever; people have advanced too far in their ideas to ever permit of more of those unjust acts and horrible punishments. I can never believe that the world isn't growing daily better! And, boys, it is all very well to love and long for the golden deeds and knightly ideals of the men of mythical King Arthur's Court, for instance; read about them all you can, and try to imitate them, but never wish back the terrible conditions of warfare and brutality which existed at the time. The kindly thoughts and acts will endure always, but the rest,—never!"

Silently they took their seats in the carriage, and the coachman next drove them to Saint Mary's Church, which stands in the quaint village of Warwick. Its old tower holds ten bells, and these play every four hours. There is a different tune for each day, which is always changed at midnight. The Warwick towns-people, living near their church, must have an enviable musical education, for they have continually dinned in their ears all sorts of tunes, from the "Easter Hymn" to "The Blue Bells of Scotland."

On the site of Saint Mary's, an ancient church is believed to have stood, prior to William the Conqueror. The present edifice, having been much altered and added to by various benefactors, and at very various times, presents a rather confused and not especially pleasing appearance architecturally. All visitors to the town are attracted there, however, by the presence of the Beauchamp Chapel, which contains the tomb of the Earl of Leicester.

Having paid the entrance fee, Mrs. Pitt and her charges were permitted to descend the few steps leading from the church proper into the Beauchamp Chapel. It is very beautiful, and was built in 1443, by William Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, who intended it as his memorial. It was once most elaborate with its fine marbles, monuments adorned with precious stones, and the gold statuettes which filled its niches, but these have long since been carried away. The tomb of Ambrose Dudley, who was named the "Good Earl of Warwick," stands in the center, and against the wall is that of the great Leicester and the Countess, his wife.

"Look here," called Mrs. Pitt. "Here lies their son, the little boy who wore the armor which you saw over at the castle. The inscription speaks of him as 'That noble impe, the young Lord Denbigh, their infant son and heir.' 'Impe' in those days had no such meaning of mischievous as we give it to-day. It then simply signified a young boy."

Betty was much impressed by a small flight of winding stairs, just off the chapel, which are entirely worn down in the middle.

"Was it because so many monks went up there?" she asked.

"Yes, so it is said," was Mrs. Pitt's reply. "Perhaps it may have been a kind of confessional, where the monks knelt."

There was one more thing in the church which they paused to note; that is, the tomb of Fulke Greville, the first Lord Brooke, who was stabbed by a valet, in 1628. Greville was "servant to Queene Elizabeth, conceller to King James, and frend to Sir Philip Sidney," as the inscription tells us; and it would seem that the greatest emphasis and respect was even then given the fact that he was "frend to" the noble Sir Philip Sidney.

Nearby, the quaint buildings of Leicester's Hospital still stand. Here was a monastery until the Dissolution, or the breaking up, of all the religious houses, under Henry VIII. When the property came into the hands of Leicester in 1571, he made the house into a hospital for twelve men. The present brethren have all been soldiers of the Crown, who now receive a pension and are spending the remainder of their days in the sunny nooks and corners of the old timbered houses. One of these brethren who showed the party about, was a most curious old character, and afforded the young people no end of amusement. He invariably gave his information in a very loud voice, which was absolutely without expression, and his eyes were kept steadily fixed upon some distant point.

He showed them the ancient hall in which Sir Fulke Greville once received King James, and it seemed to give him the keenest pleasure to describe how that King was "right royally entertained."

"Oh, ye're right, lady," he panted, "the 'ospital was founded by Robert Dudley, Lord Leicester, 'e 'o was much at Elizabeth's court, h'as you all know. And it's a descendant h'of 'is, or of 'is sister, as you may say, 'o 'as the right to appoint the master 'ere in this 'ospital to this day. 'E's Lord D'Lisle and Dudley, of Penshurst Place h'in Kent,—'im as is descended direct from the Lady Mary, sister of Robert Dudley, 'o married Sir 'Enry Sidney. H'its 'e 'o appoints the master h'over us this very day. But as I was saying,—it was 'ere that 'is Majesty King James was right royally h'entertained."

"Yes," broke in John, interrupting the rapid flow of expressionless words. "We'll remember that all right." Then in an aside to Philip, he whispered: "That's the ninth time he has said 'right royally entertained.' I'm going to keep count."

Having examined an embroidered curtain, the work of Amy Robsart at Cumnor Hall, the King of Dahomey's State Execution Sword, which seemed a bit out of place amid the surroundings, and an old battle-ax, supposed to have been used for one side or the other on the Field of Hastings, in 1066, they bade farewell to their guide (who had suddenly ceased his mechanical orations like a clock which has run down), and drove away toward Kenilworth.

Guy's Cliff next called for attention. It is first seen at the end of a long, stately avenue lined by great trees. At the back of the castle flows a stream, at this point widened out into a miniature lake, on the bank of which stands a very ancient, moss-covered Saxon mill. The castle across the water and the old mill make such very attractive pictures that their vicinity is always frequented by numbers of artists, sitting under their big umbrellas.

As the party stood under the trees by the mill, Mrs. Pitt gathered the young people about her.

"Now, I want to tell you the story of Guy of Warwick, for whom this Guy's Cliff was called. He lived long, long ago (if he really did live at all), when England had great tracts of unsettled country, where men were afraid to go for fear of horrible monsters. This brave young Guy was a strong warrior, and he became famous because he slew the Dun cow, and other terrible animals which were tormenting the country folk. Guy later went off to the Crusades. These were pilgrimages which devout men made to Jerusalem, in the endeavor to win back that city from the Turks. Guy was gone some time from England—years probably—and when he came back, he lived the life of a hermit, in a cave near here. The story goes that his wife used to carry food to him each day, and that she never recognized him until he was dying and revealed to her his identity."

Here Mrs. Pitt was forced to pause for breath, and John broke in excitedly, "Oh, let's go and see the cave! Can't we?"

"I'm afraid not, John. You see, Guy's Cliff belongs to Lord Algernon Percy, and the cave is on his private premises. I fear we would not be allowed to visit it,—especially as the family is now in residence at the castle. Did I tell you that Guy and his faithful wife were buried together in the cave?"

After taking lunch at the King's Arms Hotel at Kenilworth, and seeing the room in which Scott wrote his novel, they proceeded to the castle. The afternoon was warm and sunny, with a blue sky and a summer haze over the landscape,—the kind of afternoon which invites one to day-dreams. Consequently, Mrs. Pitt ensconced herself against the crumbling wall of Caesar's Tower, put up her umbrella to keep off the glare of the sun, and sat dreaming over the remains of the once magnificent castle. Meanwhile the young people, accompanied by a guide, climbed all over the ruin. They scrambled up narrow stairs in thick walls, climbed as high as it was safe to go on old towers, and explored the dark chambers and passages near the old Banqueting-hall.

"This tower is supposed to be where Amy Robsart's lodgings were," their dignified guide told them, and then he boldly spoiled Betty's delight, by saying, "It's queer now how fascinated all visitors are by Amy Robsart. Of course, they've read of her in Scott's novel, but curiously enough, that's the only part of the tale which is not taken strictly from history. No one really knows whether Amy Robsart ever was at Kenilworth, and at any rate, it doesn't seem at all likely that she was here at the time of Queen Elizabeth's famous visit of 1563."

"O dear!" Betty sighed, really bitterly disappointed. "I always liked the part about Amy best of all, and now it isn't true at all!"

"Never mind, Miss; there would be plenty of interest attached to the old place, even if Scott had never written of it. Oh, I know it's a great book, and makes that particular period of Kenilworth's history remarkably vivid. What I mean is, that the old castle is not dependent on Scott for its grand history and reputation." He looked above him at the beautiful oriel-windows of the Banqueting-hall, as if he loved every stone there. After a few such speeches, even the children began to notice that he was "different from most guides"; he used most excellent English, was very neatly dressed, had a pleasant, refined face, and seemed to take an especial interest in the young people.

The guide went on in his deep voice. "Kenilworth was built in 1120, by Geoffrey de Clinton, Lord Chamberlain to Henry I. Later, it came into the possession of the great Simon de Montfort, and it then successfully withstood a siege; but it was during the Civil Wars that Cromwell's soldiers reduced the splendid castle to these almost equally splendid ruins. Of course, it was at the height of its glory when the Earl of Leicester owned it, and Queen Elizabeth came here on a visit. I'm sure you have all read about that famous week,—of all the pageants, feasts, carnivals, and displays of fireworks upon the lake. The lake was there; water covered all those low fields back of the castle. At that time, the main approach was here," pointing to where a rustic bridge crosses a little ravine. "There was once a large bridge there, and from that entrance the Queen had her first glimpse of the castle where she was to be so magnificently entertained."

Just then Barbara saw that her mother had risen and was motioning that it was time for them to go. So they reluctantly left the guide, thanking him as Philip handed him his fee. That gentleman (for so he really seemed) doffed his hat most politely, and appeared genuinely sorry to have them go. As Betty turned to take a last look at the old Banqueting-hall, she saw him standing just where they had left him, and a bit wistfully watching them walk away. When they were once again in the carriage and driving toward Coventry, they described the guide to Mrs. Pitt, who showed much interest. Barbara thought that he was a poor scholar or teacher, who was taking that way of earning a little during the summer months; John was sure he was a nobleman in disguise, for some highly romantic, secret reason; Philip could not even imagine who he might be, so great was the mysterious atmosphere about him; but Betty added: "He's surely a gentleman, and he was such an interesting, polite guide, that I wish they were all like him."

"Yes, it is curious," agreed Mrs. Pitt. "I'd like to have been along with you, for I should have enjoyed studying him. I have once or twice before come across just such puzzling characters. I once spent a month at a small hotel down in Devonshire, where there was a head-waiter who always interested me. I decided that he must have a history, and it was proved that I was right when I discovered him a few months later, dining with a lady at one of the most aristocratic hotels in London. I'll never forget my sensations when I realized why his face was so familiar, and where I had seen it before! That mystery was never explained, and I'm afraid yours never will be."

They found Coventry a delightful old town. Here it was that so many of the Miracle Plays used to be given in olden times. The "Coventry Plays" were famous, and Mrs. Pitt took the party to the court-yard of Saint Mary's Hall, where they were wont to be performed; for such entertainments always took place in the open air,—in squares or courts, the stage being rudely constructed upon a wagon, which could be taken from place to place.

At the corner of two streets is an absurd figure of "Peeping Tom," which recalls the fabled ride of the Lady Godiva, and her sacrifice to procure the freedom of the people of Coventry from unjust taxes.

Coventry streets are very narrow and crooked (Hawthorne once said that they reminded him of Boston's winding ways), and there are many picturesque houses, their upper stories jutting out over the street. One most charming example of sixteenth century architecture is Ford's Hospital, a home for forty aged women. The street front is unique in its construction of timbers, gables, and carvings. Inside is an oblong, paved court, overhung by the second story of the building.

"It's like Leicester's Hospital at Warwick, only this is really more quaint, isn't it? The old ladies peeping out from their little rooms are dear! I'm going to make friends with them," Betty declared, as she disappeared under one of the low doorways. She was soon seen accompanying an old dame on crutches, who was hobbling out to show off her bit of a garden, back of the house.

On the return trip to Leamington, they were rather quiet. Having seen so many famous places, it was natural that they should wish to think them over. The driver approached Leamington by another road than that by which they had left it, and it took them past Stoneleigh Abbey, the country seat of Lord Leigh. It is situated in the midst of woodland, which has been called "the only real bit of old Arden Forest now to be found in Warwickshire."

"They say that the Abbey is remarkably beautiful," said Mrs. Pitt, "but I've never been fortunate enough to see it at any nearer range. The house is not very old, having been erected in the eighteenth century, but it stands on the site of a Cistercian Abbey, of which one gateway still remains."

It was late when they reached the hotel at Leamington, and they were forced to hurry in order to be dressed in time for dinner. The gong found them all assembled, however, for such a day of sight-seeing makes one hungry. They all had a good laugh at Betty, for when she was caught in a "brown study," and Mrs. Pitt asked to hear her thoughts, she replied:

"Oh, I was thinking over what a lovely day it has been,—especially at Kenilworth!" and then added with a sigh, "If I only could know who that guide was, everything would be perfect!"



CHAPTER FOURTEEN

SHERWOOD FOREST AND HADDON HALL

Betty could scarcely sit still in the train which was carrying her towards Mansfield, from sheer excitement at the anticipation of actually seeing the haunts of Robin Hood. Ever since Mrs. Pitt had mentioned that town as the gateway of the Sherwood Forest of Betty's dreams, the name had seemed an enchanted one to her. As they had come only the comparatively short journey from Leeds, they arrived at Mansfield in the middle of the morning, and being Friday, the public square presented its usual busy scenes of market-day. Vendors were shouting their wares, long-suffering babies who had been unwillingly brought along were crying, women were loudly chattering in shrill voices, and a poor little dog, who in some mysterious way was being made to play a part in a Punch and Judy Show, was yelping piteously.

"Well," began Betty, who could think of only Robin Hood—her dear hero, whose story was about to be made even more vivid to her—"perhaps this is the very market where he came when he had bought out the butcher's stock of meat and was selling it for kisses to the lasses of the town. Oh, do you suppose it is the same place?"

"Why, no!" interrupted John, in the decisive tones which he always used when confident of his superior knowledge. "'Nottingham Town' was where Robin Hood and his whole gang of fellows always went!"

"Yes, that was really more associated with the famous outlaw than Mansfield. You'll see Nottingham this afternoon, or, at any rate, to-morrow. Now, come this way to the Swan Hotel. While you girls unpack, I'll see that some horses are harnessed so that we can soon set off to the forest." Mrs. Pitt then led the way from the market-square toward the inn of which she had spoken.

Before the carriage was ready, the young people had thoroughly explored this remarkable old house. Perhaps the most notable thing about it is the spiral staircase of solid oak, which is three hundred years old; but the entire building is filled with little passages and unexpected, remote nooks and corners, which, like the quaint bedrooms, are crowded with curios, old pictures, and superb antique furniture. Betty declared she had never seen such a "darling old four-poster" as the one which stood in her room, the favorite Number Nine for which all visitors clamor. Altogether, they considered it a most delightful place, and Betty thought that without too great a stretch of the imagination, she could even think of Robin Hood or Little John there.

The hostess hastened to prepare a delicious, early lunch especially for the party, and having partaken of it, they went at once to the open carriage which was drawn up in the odd little inn-yard. John, as usual, claimed the seat beside the driver, the others settled themselves, and they started off.

No sooner had they reached the open country than Betty's pent-up spirits overflowed entirely.

"Oh, do you see that little river flowing through the meadows?" she suddenly cried, standing up to point at it excitedly. "See the reeds along its edges, the field of tall grain, and the old tree trunk which has fallen across the water! I just know that must be the place where Robin first met Little John. They had a fight on a narrow foot-bridge, you know, and Little John (who wasn't 'little' at all) was the stronger, and tumbled Robin Hood over into the brook. Don't you remember, John? That looks exactly like the picture in my Howard Pyle's 'Robin Hood,' at home. Oh, I'm perfectly sure it must be the same place! Aren't you, Mrs. Pitt?"

This enthusiasm of Betty's was soon caught by the rest, and during the whole afternoon they took turns in telling, one after another, the "Merry Adventures of Robin Hood," as they recalled them. There could not be a section of country which more perfectly suggests the setting for that particular group of legends which has been associated with it. Here surely is the identical woodland through which Robin Hood and his merry men roamed. No one could possibly mistake it! Here are the very same trees, behind which one can almost see lurking the men in "Lincoln green." Here are ideal little glades carpeted with dainty ferns, here and there touched with the sunlight which flashes between the leaves. Sometimes the road emerges from the forest, and winds along through broad fields,—the "high road" bordered by green meadows and hedgerows.

"You know," began Mrs. Pitt, her eyes sparkling with fun, "when Robin and his men had been in hiding for some days or weeks, perhaps, because the old Sheriff of Nottingham was trying particularly hard to catch them at the time, some of the most venturesome ones, not being able to exist longer under the restraint, would start off in search of adventure; and leaving a bit reluctantly the heart of Sherwood Forest, they always made straight for the 'high road.' Now in just such a place as this, by the cross-roads, Little John, garbed as a gray friar, met the three lasses who were carrying their eggs to the market at Tuxford. He swung one basket from his rosary, about his neck, and took one in either hand, and thus he accompanied the maids to town. Am I right? Is that the tale?"

"Yes," continued Philip, taking up the story where his mother had left off; "then he went to a 'fair, thatched inn,' you know, and he sat drinking with the tinker, the peddler, and the beggar, when the two rich brothers from Fountains Abbey came out to start again on their journey to York. Little John thought there'd be some fun, and perhaps some good money for him, if he decided to go part of the way with them, so he did. Don't you remember that one brother was very tall and thin, and the other very short and stout? They were proud and ashamed of being seen on the road in the company of a poor friar whose gown was too short for him, as was Little John's. But he insisted upon staying by, and strode along between their two nags. Whenever they met anybody—beggars, fair lords and ladies, or fat Bishops—Little John called out: 'Here we go; we three!'"

"And then," broke in Betty, her face literally radiant, "don't you know how Little John finally robbed them? That was best of all! When they came to a certain parting of the ways, he did consent to leave them, but first he asked for a few pence, as he was poor. Both brothers declared that they hadn't any money, at which Little John insisted upon their kneeling down on the dusty road and praying to the good St. Dunstan to send them each ten shillings, so that they could continue their journey in safety and comfort. You know, he thought it such a pity for two such worthy brothers to be in sore need of food and drink!" The children were unconsciously lapsing into the language of the Robin Hood stories, as they rattled on and on.

"Well," Betty went on, "Little John prayed and prayed, and then he asked the brothers to feel and see if the good St. Dunstan hadn't sent them something. Time after time this performance was repeated, and still they said they had nothing. Finally Little John himself felt in their pouches and found,—oh, heaps of money! He left the brothers ten shillings each, and carried away the rest, saying he was sure that the good St. Dunstan had meant it for him! Oh, I think I like Little John best of all,—almost better even than Robin Hood! He always did such cute things!"

By this time, they were nearing some of the big palaces which gave this section of the country the name of "The Dukeries," from the fact that so many noblemen have lived there. Earl Manvers, the Duke of Newcastle, and the Duke of Portland, all have tremendous estates between the towns of Worksop and Edwinstowe. Some of the stately houses were pointed out in the distance behind the trees, but neither Barbara nor Betty, Philip nor John, paid the slightest heed to them. Their minds were fixed on Robin Hood, and they saw only the Sherwood Forest which he knew. When Betty looked at Clumber House, across a pretty little lake, she only said:

"Perhaps near that lake was where Robin found Alan-a-Dale, the dear minstrel."

"Oh, no, Betty; it was by a fountain that he found Alan-a-Dale," Barbara politely corrected.

"Yes, that's so, Barbara," Betty replied, in all seriousness. "I forgot."

There was one thing upon the estate of the Duke of Portland which did greatly interest the party, however; that is, an old gnarled oak which is called "Robin Hood's Larder."

"Ye see, 'e came 'ere to store 'is venison, and to 'ang it up to dry. 'E was a clever chap, 'e was. 'E 'id it inside the trunk." The driver grinned from ear to ear, as he gave this valuable information.

Getting out to explore, the children found that the huge tree is hollow, and propped up to postpone the sad day when it will surely collapse altogether. Many old tree-trunks, all over Sherwood Forest, are like this, and in some of them John could stretch his full length upon the ground. Near "Robin Hood's Larder" is the spot where, according to Scott, the outlaw met with King Richard of the Lion Heart,—or, at least, so say the local guidebooks.

"Yes," said Mrs. Pitt, understanding at once; "don't you remember that in Scott's 'Ivanhoe'? Another version of this famous meeting is in Howard Pyle's book. King Richard was at Nottingham Town, you know, and having a curious desire to meet with Robin Hood, he and his friends went into Sherwood Forest, dressed as friars. Robin and his men found them, of course, and made them guests at a feast. Later, there was shooting, and Robin Hood, having once missed the mark, applied to the King, whom he did not recognize, for a punishment. Thereupon King Richard arose, rolled up his sleeve, and gave such a blow as Robin had never felt before. It was afterwards that Sir Richard of the Lea appeared upon the scene, and disclosed the identity of the powerful stranger. Then Robin Hood, Little John, Will Scarlet, and Alan-a-Dale followed the King to London at the royal wish, and left Sherwood for many a long day."

They were now passing through a very dense part of the wood. Close about the feet of the oaks, a thick, tangled underbrush grows. Some of the old trees seem to be gray with age, and their whitish, twisted branches offer a sharp contrast to the dark shadows, and make a weird, ghostlike effect.

"Oh!" exclaimed Betty, "it must have been in just such a spot as this in the forest that Gurth in 'Ivanhoe' suddenly came upon a company of Robin Hood's men. Gurth was the Saxon, you know. He had been to Isaac, the Jew, at York, and was carrying back the ransom money to his master, Ivanhoe. Of course, poor Gurth thought he would surely be robbed, when he discovered in whose society he was; but as you said, Mrs. Pitt, Robin Hood never took money from honest men, especially when it was not their own. They led Gurth farther and farther into the depths of Sherwood. I can just imagine it was a place like this,—where the moonlight lit up these ghostly trees, and the red glow of the camp-fire showed Gurth's frightened face. He was quite safe, though, for he proved that the money was his master's, and Robin let him go, and even showed him the way to the 'skirts of the forest,' as he did the Sheriff of Nottingham."

All this time the carriage had been rolling along, and as they neared an open space in the forest, John suddenly caught sight of something which made him turn to his friend, the driver, and exclaim: "Oh, what are they?"

Stretching away for quite a distance on either side of the road were rows and rows of tiny, peaked houses or coops. The coachman told them that here was where they breed the pheasants which are hunted. When the birds have reached a certain age, they are set free, and a gun is fired in their midst to give them a taint of the wild. John was much interested, in spite of the fact that he considered it "a mean trick." It really does not seem quite fair to take excellent, kindly care of any animal or bird, allow it to believe you are its friend, and then to suddenly turn it loose and proceed to hunt it for mere sport.

In strange contrast to the merry drive through Sherwood Forest, was a little incident which occurred in a village on the edge of "The Dukeries" district, where they halted to water the horses. On one side of the quaint main street is a row of old, old houses, where for many years have lived the aged people who are usually provided for by the nobleman to whom that village belongs.

All the tiny houses were empty at the time of this visit, with the exception of one where lived a dear old lady, by herself, her neighbors having all died. Mrs. Pitt went in to call upon her, as do most strangers passing through here, and was touched by her pathetic speech. She said they were simply waiting to tear down the houses until she should go, and looking tearfully up into Mrs. Pitt's face, added: "I'm eighty-six years old now, and I won't last much longer, but I can't go until the Lord calls me, can I?" In spite of this, she insisted that she was quite happy, for she had her "good feather bed,"—and what more could she need?

The following morning, the party went by train to Nottingham, where they spent a short time in exploring. The present town is much like others, except in its legendary connection with Robin Hood. All visitors might not find it as fascinating as did Mrs. Pitt and the young people, who knew it as the abode of the disagreeable Sheriff whom Robin Hood heartily hated, and upon whom he continually played so many tricks, always evading punishment most successfully. They pictured the gay procession of soldiers and knights which accompanied King John when he entered that city, as the Sheriff's guest; and to them the old market-square (the largest in all England) suggested the scene of Robin Hood's masquerade as a butcher. There they halted and imagined him standing beside his booth, and calling out: "Now who'll buy? who'll buy? Four fixed prices have I. Three pennyworths of meat I sell to a fat friar or priest for sixpence, for I want not their custom; stout aldermen I charge threepence, for it doth not matter to me whether they buy or not; to buxom dames I sell three pennyworths of meat for one penny, for I like their custom well; but to the bonny lass that hath a liking for a good tight butcher, I charge nought but one fair kiss, for I like her custom the best of all."

"It was here in Nottingham that Will Stutely had his narrow escape, wasn't it?" questioned Betty. "He was captured by the Sheriff's men at 'Ye Blue Boar Inn,' and they brought him to town and would have hanged him, if Robin Hood and his men hadn't arrived just in time to save his life. Once Little John came to Nottingham Town and lived for some time in the Sheriff's own castle, pretending to be the cook. My! what lots of things happened here!"

Not far away are splendid Chatsworth House, one of the palaces of the Duke of Devonshire, and lovely Haddon Hall, with its romantic story, and both of these famous places received a visit from Mrs. Pitt and her party.

Chatsworth, I am afraid, was not fully appreciated by our friends. It has a most beautiful situation—in the valley of the Derwent, which rushes along through the extensive park; the house itself is magnificent—filled with fine marble halls and rooms, and costly treasures of art; and in the gardens almost every sovereign of Europe seems to have planted some kind of a tree. One curious thing did wonderfully please the children's fancy; that is, a marvelous weeping-willow tree, from the metal twigs and branches of which tiny streams of water come at a sign from the gardener. But somehow, on the whole, Chatsworth is cold and unfeeling, and failed to appeal to the party.

Not so was it with Haddon Hall! The most prosaic summer tourist could hardly fail to be moved by admiration of its delights. It is still a real home, and seems alive with memories of the fair Dorothy Vernon and her family. The old castle has scarcely changed at all since the sixteenth century, and one feels as though the great lords and ladies of Queen Elizabeth's time had thoughtfully stepped out on the terrace, in order that we might wander through their noble old dwelling.

The custodian was having her afternoon-tea when the party arrived; she did not think of hurrying in the slightest, but leisurely finished this most important meal, and then received the visitors' fees and allowed them to enter.

"I feel as though I had walked into a story!" remarked Betty quietly. "Is Dorothy at home?"

The various buildings of Haddon Hall are built around two square courts. The oldest bit is the ancient chapel, in part dating from Norman times, and in which the Vernon family worshiped for four hundred years. It still contains some old wooden pews, and traces of grotesque paintings may be seen upon its walls.

"Where are we going now?" whispered Barbara, keeping close to Betty, as the guide led them down a very dark passage, with an uneven stone floor. "Oh, it's the kitchen!"

A light had now been struck, and the huge fireplaces of this kitchen of bygone days could be seen. Everything seemed complete, even to the woodbox which once held the tremendous logs.

"How in the world could they see to cook in such a dark place?" inquired the practical John.

"Oh, there were probably great torches fastened to the walls, and then there are some tiny windows. When your eyes grow accustomed to the dim light, you can see fairly well. I should think, though, that once in a while, the cook might have put a little too much salt in the pasty," Mrs. Pitt replied laughingly.

An exceedingly curious feature of Haddon's Banqueting-hall is an iron bracket with a ring, which is between the entrance doors. Naturally, Mrs. Pitt was called upon to explain this.



"Well," said she, "it's worth an explanation, for it has a strange purpose. Any guest who could not or would not drink as much as was required of him by the laws of hospitality, had his arm fastened up to that ring, and what he had refused to take was poured down his sleeve. Fancy! For my part, I should consider that a sad waste! Speaking of drinking, I wonder if you really know what it means when a man pledges or drinks a health. It's a very ancient custom! Back in the days of Saxon England, it very often happened that a man would be stabbed while drinking, so it became the habit for him to turn to his neighbor and ask if he would 'pledge' him. If he agreed, his duty was to keep guard over his friend who wished to drink. A trace of this caution still exists at Queen's College, Oxford. There the students who wait upon the 'fellows,' stand behind them and place their right thumbs upon the table."

The round steps in the Long Gallery are said to have been cut from one great oak, grown on the estate. Up these they went, and followed the guide to the celebrated Ball-room, which is so often and so beautifully pictured. This long room is exquisite with its carved paneling, polished, inlaid floor, and lovely bay-windows overlooking the terrace.

"Here the ball was in progress at the time of Dorothy Vernon's escape. It was the wedding night of Dorothy's sister, wasn't it? At any rate, while every one was engrossed in the dancing and merrymaking, Dorothy quietly slipped away, ran through this door here, along the terrace, and out to a certain tree in the park where her lover was awaiting her with the horses. That's the story, and certainly it is a pretty one," concluded Mrs. Pitt.

Just off the Ball-room is the State Bed-room, which claims to have had Queen Elizabeth as an occupant. The great bed, fourteen feet six inches high, is considered one of the finest in England, and is finished in green velvet and white satin.

They strolled out through Dorothy Vernon's door and along the lovely terrace, over which the solemn yew-trees hang low. From here is seen a charming view of the garden, hemmed in upon one side by that part of the castle containing the Ball-room. The sun was just setting as they lingered upon the steps of the terrace, and it flooded everything with a golden light. The scene was so beautiful that all were silent as they gazed and gazed. Betty finally rose with a deep sigh, and said:

"Well, I suppose Dorothy knew what she was about, but I'm sure that I should never have run away from Haddon Hall!"



CHAPTER FIFTEEN

WINCHESTER, SALISBURY, AND STONEHENGE

It was not until they were well on their way toward Winchester, that Mrs. Pitt found a chance to tell the young people something about that ancient city which they were so soon to see.

"Winchester has a cathedral, hasn't it?" Betty had inquired. "I always like to see those."

"Yes, indeed," replied Mrs. Pitt. "There surely is a cathedral, for it's the longest one in all Europe with the exception of St. Peter's at Rome. I'm certain you will enjoy that; but what I think you'll appreciate even more are the associations which Winchester has with the life of Alfred the Great. You all remember about him, don't you!"

"The fellow who burnt the cakes?" put in John, jeeringly.

"Yes, but he was also 'the fellow' who led his army at a time when the country was in great danger—who dressed as a minstrel and dared to go even into the very camp of the enemy, so as to investigate their movements. You certainly like that in him, John?"

"I know it! That was great!" John answered warmly. "Please tell us some more about him, Mrs. Pitt."

"To me he has always been one of the most lovable as well as admirable characters in all our English history. He came to the throne at a time when his wise leadership was greatly needed, and he fought long and valiantly for his country. When he burnt the cakes, John, it was merely because his thoughts were so busy with the plans for England's future. Alfred made Winchester the capital of his whole realm, and here he lived with all the court, when there was peace in the land. Part of Alfred's boyhood had been spent here, too, when he was the pupil of the wise St. Swithin; and, at Winchester, he made the good and just laws for which he will always be remembered. Within the walls of old Wolvesley Castle, the famous 'Anglo-Saxon Chronicle' was commenced, at the command of the King. But besides all these useful deeds, Alfred had such a beautiful personality that his family and all the people of his kingdom loved him, and called him 'the perfect King.' I have long admired this little tribute which one historian has given Alfred the Great. He says this; I think these are the very words: 'He was loved by his father and mother, and even by all the people, above all by his brothers. As he advanced through the years of infancy and youth, his form appeared more comely than that of his brothers; in look, in speech, and in manners, he was more graceful than they. His noble nature implanted in him from his cradle a love of wisdom above all things.' And so, through all the centuries between his time and ours, King Alfred's name has stood for all that is just, kind, wise, and beautiful."

"Where was King Alfred buried, Mother?" asked Barbara.

"I'll show you his grave—or what is supposed to be his. But here we are at Winchester now!" cried Mrs. Pitt; "and the sun has come out just for our special benefit, too!"

In a "cathedral town," one is usually drawn first of all to the cathedral itself, it being the central point about which the whole town seems to cluster; and so it was that Mrs. Pitt led the way down the shaded walk between the broad stretches of lawn surrounding the great structure. To her great disappointment, an ugly net-work of staging entirely spoiled the effect of the exterior of the building.

"I once read a book which an American wrote about his trip abroad," related Mrs. Pitt. "It amused me very much! After visiting a really remarkable number of churches and important buildings which were undergoing reconstruction or strengthening, this gentleman ventured the belief that the authorities must have made a mistake in the date of his arrival, for everything seemed to point to the preparation of a splendid reception to him anywhere from a week to a month later. I feel that way to-day. The Winchester people certainly could not have expected us just yet. It's a pity that we cannot see this grand cathedral at its best!"

The usual feeling of quiet awe came over the party upon entering the edifice, and this was here somehow increased by the vastness of the interior. Their footsteps echoed strangely on the stone floor, and looking up at the arches above her head, Betty began to walk about on tiptoe.

"The marriage of Queen Mary with Philip of Spain took place in this cathedral," Mrs. Pitt said. "In Bishop Langton's Chapel here, is an old chair said to have been used by the Queen at the ceremony. Notice the six wooden chests above that screen. They contain the bones of some of the old, old kings—William Rufus, Canute, Egbert, Ethelwolf, and others. Once upon a time, there was a very famous shrine here—that of St. Swithin. You remember the legend which tells how the body of that saint was delayed from being removed to the chapel already fitted to receive it, by forty days of rain. That's why when we have nasty, rainy weather in England, we always blame St. Swithin.

"I'll show you the tomb of the well-known authoress, Jane Austen, and that of Izaak Walton, who is buried in one of the chapels. The former lived her last days and died in this town, and it was in the little river Itchen which flows through Winchester, that Izaak Walton used to fish. They were both laid to rest here in the cathedral, near the scenes which they dearly loved."

The environs of the cathedral are very pretty, and one of the most picturesque features is the old Deanery, where Charles II once lodged. Just outside the cathedral close is the modest little house which was Jane Austen's home.

Winchester School was visited,—a very famous old institution which is connected with New College, Oxford, and was built by William of Wykeham in 1396,—and the vine-covered ruins of old Wolvesley Castle, which stand on the outskirts of the town, and near the river.

"Didn't you say that this was where King Alfred had them write the 'Anglo-Saxon Chronicle'?" Betty asked of Mrs. Pitt. "Will you please tell us what that was? I don't seem to remember very well."

"Well, dear, the 'Anglo-Saxon Chronicle' is the 'first history of the English People,' as some one has correctly said. Part of it was written by Alfred himself, and the rest was done by others, under his direction. It is simply a record of all important events which were written down as they took place. The 'Chronicle' grew and grew for about two hundred and fifty years, the last mention being of the accession to the throne of Henry II, in 1154. For many years it was kept here at its birthplace, but it has now been moved to the library of Corpus Christi College at Oxford. You see, therefore, that this important work really marked the start of the wonderful succession of literary productions which Englishmen have brought forth in these one thousand years."

Quite at the other end of the town from Wolvesley Castle is the County Court, a fine old hall, which once upon a time formed part of a castle built by William the Conqueror. Mrs. Pitt had some difficulty in finding the caretaker who could admit them, and not until they were actually inside did the children understand why she was so very anxious that they should see it.

Many were the exclamations of delight, however, when the guide pointed to the wall at one end of the Norman room, and told them that the round, flat object hanging thereupon was "King Arthur's Round Table."

"What!" cried Betty, her mouth wide open in her excitement, "the very table at which the knights sat!—Sir Lancelot, Sir Gawain, Sir Perceval, Sir Galahad, and all the rest! Why, I never knew it was here, or I should have come to see it before anything else! To think of it's being the real table!"

It was hard for Mrs. Pitt to tell Betty that all the legends concerning this table are pure fiction. "Not all authorities consider its identity absolutely certain," she admitted unwillingly, "but we're going to believe in it just the same. It must date from the sixth century! Fancy! However, it was all repainted in the time of Henry VIII, and these peculiar stripes and devices were the work of some sixteenth century brush."

Betty sat right down on the floor, and stared up at the table of her adored King Arthur and his knights. With much difficulty could Mrs. Pitt persuade her to leave the hall, and that was not accomplished until after Betty had trustingly inquired of the guide whether he knew where the chairs were in which the knights sat when they gathered about the table, for "she'd like so much to find them right away."

Passing under a gate of the old city-wall, and along the quaint streets of the town, the party came to Hyde Abbey,—or what little now remains of it.

"Alfred's body was first buried in the old minster (cathedral); then it was carried to the new; and last of all, it was removed by the monks here to Hyde Abbey, which monastery Alfred himself had founded. In the eighteenth century the Abbey was almost entirely destroyed, and then it was that Alfred's true burial-place was lost sight of. Later still, in making some excavations here, the workmen found an ancient coffin which was examined and believed to be that of the King. Reverently it was reburied and marked with a flat stone, and this doubtful grave is the only trace we now have of Alfred the Great." They had all quietly followed Mrs. Pitt to the spot where, across the way from the Abbey, they saw the grave.

Before returning to the hotel that night, Mrs. Pitt suggested that they go to see the old Hospital of St. Cross.

"It's only about a mile from the town," she said. "There's a charming little path along the banks of the Itchen, and I think we'd enjoy the walk in the cool of the afternoon."

Mrs. Pitt was quite correct. It proved a delightful stroll, leading them to the fertile valley in which Henry de Blois built his Hospital of St. Cross, by the side of the pleasant little river.

"The Hospital was really founded by Henry de Blois, but three centuries later, Cardinal Beaufort took much interest in it, made some changes and improvements, and greatly aided in its support," the children were told. "To this day, there is a distinction between the St. Cross Brethren and the Beaufort Brethren, but this is chiefly confined to the matter of dress. Seventeen men are living here now, and are most kindly treated, fed, clothed, and allowed to plant and tend their own tiny gardens."

But the most interesting feature of St. Cross—that which in so remarkably vivid a way holds its connection with the past—is the dole. Since the reign of King Stephen, no one applying for food or drink at the Beaufort Tower of St. Cross Hospital, has ever been turned away. To each has been given, during all the centuries, a drink of beer and a slice of bread. A slight distinction is made between visitors by the scrutiny of the Brethren; for, to the tramp is handed a long draught of beer from a drinking-horn and a huge piece of bread, while to some are offered the old silver-mounted cup, and wooden platter.

"Can we have some?" John inquired. "I think I might not like the beer, but the bread would be all right, and I'm hungry!"

In spite of Betty's reproving cry of "Why, John!" Mrs. Pitt motioned him to go up to the gate, and ring.

"Yes, it's quite proper for us to apply for the dole," she said. "Emerson and Carlyle once did so, and I imagine they were not in any greater need of it than are we."

As John received his portions and was looking at them a bit dubiously, Philip called out to him, "Don't take so much that you can't eat your dinner, Jack!" and then, seeing that John had already set down the food untouched, they all laughed merrily.

After breakfasting at Winchester the following morning, an early train carried the party to the town of Salisbury, there to see the fairest of the English cathedrals,—that is, in Mrs. Pitt's opinion, of course.

To say that Salisbury Cathedral stands in the center of a velvet-like lawn, to mention the fact that a little stream flows musically by, to add that the towers and lines of the building itself are wonderfully graceful, is attempting to describe things as they exist, but wholly inadequate in the impression which it gives to the reader. There is an indescribable fascination about Salisbury Cathedral, which a person must see to understand. Any one who is at all responsive to the charm of great architecture, can sit for hours under the old trees on the little common, and drink in the whole scene,—the beautiful building with its delicate shapes outlined in shadows upon the green grass.

"No doubt it is a generally accepted fact that Lincoln is the finest of the English cathedrals," Mrs. Pitt explained after a time. "Perhaps Durham comes next in line, and Canterbury has great historical interest. I only assert that to me Salisbury is the most beautiful. You know, Betty, that the construction of most cathedrals was extended over many years,—even many generations, usually. Salisbury was an exception to that rule, for it was begun and finished within forty years (1220 to 1260), and therefore has rare harmony and uniformity of style."

There are many quaint streets and buildings in the town of Salisbury, but these become familiar though always delightful sights to the visitor who gives a good share of his time to old England. Having noted the old-fashioned King's Arms Inn, which was a secret meeting-place of the Royalists after the battle of Worcester, the party had an early lunch, and then set out to drive the ten miles to Stonehenge.

The road which they took begins to ascend gradually, and after about a mile and a half brought them to the high mound which was once "the largest entrenched camp in the kingdom," according to Betty's leather-covered Baedeker. This was the site of Old Sarum, a fort during the Roman occupation, and afterwards a Saxon town. Numerous interesting remains of the camp are here, and the high elevation affords an excellent view of Salisbury and the surrounding country.

The rest of the drive was not particularly enjoyable. A sharp wind blew over the high Salisbury Plains, which are bare and not very picturesque to see. In the center of this great stretch of plain stands that strange relic of the past known as Stonehenge. Being on an elevation, the stones stand out weirdly against the sky as the visitor approaches, and give him a foretaste of the peculiar mystery which pervades the place.

The section is surrounded by a wire fence, and a man collects a fee of a shilling before admitting any one into the company of these gigantic rocks, which are standing or lying about in various positions. It seems as though there were originally two great circles, one inside the other, formed by huge oblong stones, set up on end as a child might arrange his blocks. On the tops of these, others are in some places still poised, though many have fallen. One great stone lies broken across the altar.

After the young people had climbed about and thoroughly explored the ruins, they gathered around Mrs. Pitt to hear her explanation of the place.

"Well," she began, "it is generally believed that we see here the remains of an ancient temple of the Druids. They were half-mythical creatures who are thought to have inhabited England in prehistoric times. They worshiped Nature,—particularly the Sun, and lived out-of-doors entirely. Most people consider them to have been the originators of this strange work, though it has also been attributed to the Saxons, the Danes, and, I believe, even the Phoenicians. But no matter what people were the real builders, there still remains the question of how these tremendous stones were brought here in days when there was no machinery, and in a district near which no stone-quarries could possibly have been. That has puzzled men in all ages."

The laughter and chatter of the members of a large "Personally Conducted" party, who were having their late lunch in the field just outside the picket-fence, grated upon Mrs. Pitt's nerves. Even more than in a cathedral with solid walls and a roof, here in this open-air, ruined temple, dating from unknown ages, one is filled with deepest reverence. It almost seems possible to see the ancient Druids who worshiped there, dressed in robes of purest white.

In spite of the blue sky, the bright sunshine of early afternoon, and the nearness of very noisy, human tourists, Betty so felt the strange atmosphere which envelopes these huge sentinels of the past, that she suddenly exclaimed:

"Oh, please, Mrs. Pitt, let's go back to Salisbury! I can't bear this any longer."



So they drove slowly away over the fields, and as Mrs. Pitt turned for a last glance behind, she saw the stones looming up in lonely majesty, and thought to herself, "They have a secret which no one will ever know."



CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CLOVELLY

A big, high, lumbering coach with four horses was slowly carrying Mrs. Pitt and her young charges toward Clovelly,—that most famous of all English fishing-villages. Betty, having discovered a photograph of it some weeks before, had not ceased talking to the others of her great desire to see the place; and finally Mrs. Pitt postponed her plans for visiting other and more instructive towns, packed up the young people, and started for lovely Devonshire. "Well," the kind lady had thought to herself, "perhaps it will be just as well for them to have a short holiday, and go to a pretty spot where they can simply amuse themselves, and not have to learn too much history. Bless their little hearts! They surely deserve it, for their brains have been kept quite busy all the spring,—and I believe I shall enjoy Clovelly once again, myself!"

Now that they were actually there, the realization was proving even more delightful than the anticipation. The weather was perfect, and to drive along the cliffs and moors, with a fresh, cool breeze blowing up from the blue water below, was wonderfully exhilarating. Their route led through a country where innumerable bright red poppies grow in the fields of grain, and where there are genuine "Devonshire lanes," shut in by tall hedges and wild flowers. Sometimes they clattered through the narrow streets of a tiny village, while the coachman snapped his whip, and the postilion in his scarlet coat and brass buttons, sounded his bugle loudly. As they rolled by farmhouses, heads would appear curiously at the windows, while children ran out to watch that important event,—the passing of the daily coach. One rosy-cheeked girl in a blue pinafore tossed a bunch of yellow cowslips up into Mrs. Pitt's lap, calling out, "Cowslips, lady; thank ye!" When a sixpence was thrown down to her, she smiled, courtesied primly, and then disappeared into the nearest cottage,—one of plaster and thatch, overgrown with roses.

However, the crowning joy of the day, even in the opinion of John, who was difficult to please, was the first glimpse of quaint little Clovelly itself. The coach set them down in the middle of a field; a few seafaring men stood about, there was a booth or two where old women sold fruit, a steep path was before them, but no town was anywhere in sight.

"Don't let's go down there," John grumbled. "What's the use? I'd much rather stay up on that front seat with the driver."

Mrs. Pitt smiled knowingly, and still led the way on down the walk. The hedges on either side were so high and thick that they could not see beyond them, and the children were really speechless when the path suddenly came to an end, and the whole queer little street of Clovelly lay before them. For a second no word was spoken, then all burst out at once.

"Well, what do you think of that?" chuckled John. "Just look at the donkeys!"

"And the pink and white doll's houses!" exclaimed Barbara.

"And the funny cobble-stone street!" cried Philip.



"And the blue, blue water at its feet!" rhymed Betty, all unconsciously. "I just know the Mediterranean isn't any bluer!"

"Isn't it the dearest, oddest little place!" put in Mrs. Pitt, summing up all the children's remarks in one. "I do think it's——." But here Betty interrupted her.

"Look at that little girl!" she fairly screamed. "Don't let her run down that steep street like that! She mustn't do it!"

Mrs. Pitt, after one look at the child, merely laughed and replied, "Don't worry, Betty; she's used to it. She's probably done it all her life, and she'll never fall. Now, I turn you all loose for two hours. Explore the place to your heart's content, for it will be long before you see such another. Come to the New Inn (that's it, where the sign is!) at one-thirty for luncheon."

Enthusiastically the four started off. At first they all picked their way carefully and slowly down over the smooth, slippery stones, but gradually they became more expert in keeping their balance, and could go faster. The two boys made straight for the foot of the town to see the harbor and fishing-boats; Barbara and Betty were bent on investigating all the nooks, corners, and tiny shops of the little place; and Mrs. Pitt contentedly settled herself on the miniature piazza of the New Inn, and looked with never-failing interest and delight at the scene before her.

To explain more in detail, Clovelly is built in what was once a torrent-bed, and the village tumbles down from the top of the cliff to the very edge of Hartland Bay. The droll, Italian-like cottages cling to the hillside, or seem to grow directly out of the gray rock. At first, the street descends rather gradually and straight, but after a short distance, it zigzags first to left and then to right, twists and turns, takes one under parts of houses, into private yards, out to look-off points, and then pitches very, very abruptly down to the Red Lion Inn, which guards the little harbor with its long, curving sea-wall and tiny lighthouse.

From where Mrs. Pitt sat she had a splendid view up and down the street, which was then crowded, it being the busiest time of the season. Just below her, up against the piazza, sat an artist, bent eagerly forward toward his easel, and absolutely oblivious of the throngs of people who were noisily passing close by. There were tourists in gay attire, children romping about in their queer shoes with nails on the bottom to prevent slipping, big stalwart men sliding luggage down on sledges, and patient little mules, which struggled up with big trunks fastened to shelf-like saddles over their backs. To this busy scene the bright little dwellings which line the way, add the finishing touch. The roof of one house is on a level with the second-story window of that above it; the vines are luxuriant, climbing sometimes up over the very chimneys, and flower-beds and flower-boxes are everywhere. A holiday, festive air seems universal.

"Where can one see such a scene?" mused Mrs. Pitt. "Not in Italy surely, for there the 'picturesque dirt,' as they call it, is so much in evidence. For my part, I prefer the exquisite neatness and cleanliness of Clovelly."

Lunch at the New Inn tasted very good,—especially as here the young people first made the acquaintance of the much-praised "Devonshire cream." Served with wild strawberries, or any other fruit, this thick cream is truly delicious, and unlike anything else. The meal itself was partaken of in the Annex, a larger, newer house across the way, but having finished, the party returned to the original hostelry. It is the tiniest house imaginable, and the little rooms are so crowded with furniture, the landlord's collection of fine old china, and knick-knacks of all sorts, that John endangered many valued treasures by his awkward movements. Once, in passing some people in the hall, his elbow struck a small cabinet of blue china, and there would have been a terrible catastrophe had not Mrs. Pitt arrived upon the scene at the opportune moment.

"Oh, bother!" exclaimed John, very much irritated, and more ashamed of his clumsiness than he cared to show. "How can a fellow have room to breathe in a bandbox like this! Come along, Philip; I'm going down to talk some more with those sailors."

The old fishermen who can no longer follow their loved trade sit sunning themselves comfortably on the doorsteps of their Clovelly homes, gazing dreamily out to sea. When Mrs. Pitt, Barbara, and Betty went to find the boys toward tea-time, they discovered them sitting by a group of these old cronies, who were ensconced upon a bench affording a beautiful view of the lower part of the town, the bay, and the cliffs of the rugged coast. The tide had filled the little harbor, and numerous small boats with copper-colored sails bobbed about on the opal waters; near the Red Lion Inn stood a row of sleepy-looking mules waiting for the start up the street.

The men had been exchanging fishermen's yarns, much to the pleasure of their audience, but when the ladies appeared, they commenced telling ghost-stories or curious bits of folk-lore. One tale especially amused the girls, although John thought he preferred the wild adventures of the sea.

After looking long out over the bay, the particular old salt who was then entertaining them, removed the pipe from between his teeth, and began the following. Mrs. Pitt took pains to remember it, and this is how it reads to this very day in her journal:

"The father of a certain fair young girl had been carried off by smugglers, and kept for 'a year and a day,'—until a large sum of money was finally paid for his release. He only lived a short time after his return home, however, and his daughter died soon after, worn out by anxiety about her father. This young lady's ghost continually haunts a certain little village in Devon, where some of the fisherfolk were said to have taken part in the kidnaping of her father. Instead of doing anything more violent, the ghost simply appears on Sunday mornings, just as the dinners are being cooked, and touches the meat with her white, bony hand, thereby rendering it unfit to eat."

Mrs. Pitt's famous journal, which is often referred to, contains also this story heard that day at Clovelly:

"In front of a certain farm-house was a large, flat stone, which tradition said was as old as the Flood. Here, at midnight, there always appeared a female figure, clad in a gray cloak and an old-fashioned black bonnet. The apparition would remain there until dawn, always knocking, knocking upon the stone. The inhabitants of the house nearby became so used to 'Nelly the Knocker,' as she was called, that they paid no attention whatever to her, did not fear her in the least, and would even stop to examine her queer garments. Finally, however, two young men of the family decided to solve the mystery, so they blasted the rock one day. To their great surprise, underneath were lying two large urns, packed with gold, which treasure enriched them for the rest of their days. But 'Nelly the Knocker' came no more."

In place of repairing to the somewhat stuffy dining-room at the inn, they had their tea just outside one of the most sightly cottages, and were served by a pretty young girl. The china was coarse and the thick slices, cut with a big knife from huge loaves of bread, were by no means daintily served, but it could not have tasted better, and John ate a truly alarming amount of bread and jam.

At Clovelly, the summer twilights are very long and lovely, and down on the breakwater our friends enjoyed this one to the full. One might look over the blue expanse of bay and see the faint outlines of the coast of Wales, and then turn and gaze at the picturesque harbor and the quaint, hanging village, in the houses of which, lights were slowly beginning to twinkle, one after another. They stayed until it was quite dark, and were even then loath to wend their way up the steep street, and to waste so many hours by going to bed in the "Doll's House," as John persisted in calling the New Inn.

"Well," said Betty comfortingly, "it will be fun after all,—sleeping in that funny wee inn, where there are only four bedrooms in the whole house. I choose the one with the pink rose peeping in the window! I saw it this morning. Come on."

The next day dawned as fair as one could wish, and at Mrs. Pitt's suggestion a walk along the "Hobby Drive" was first taken. This charming road was built by a Mr. Hamlin, the owner of the town of Clovelly, who lives at Clovelly Court. The drive starts just at the top of the village, and extends for three miles along the edge of the cliffs. The views are startlingly beautiful! Through the fresh green of the trees and vines, glimpses of the deep blue sea are to be had, and to add to the vivid coloring, there is the peculiar red rock which belongs to that part of the coast.

As they were retracing their steps, Mrs. Pitt said with slight hesitation:

"I promise not to give you very much history while you are here, but I must tell you just a bit about the relation which all this country bears to Charles Kingsley's great book, 'Westward Ho!' Have you never read it, John? Fancy! I'll get it for you at once! Well, Bideford is the nearest town to Clovelly, and it was from there that Amyas Leigh, Salvation Yeo, and all the rest set out with Sir Francis Drake. By the by, that very sailor, Salvation Yeo, was born in the old Red Lion Inn, at the foot of the Clovelly street. Oh, you'd like him, John, and all his brave adventures! At Clovelly Court, in the days of the story, lived Will Cary, another of the well-known characters in 'Westward Ho!,' and in the little parish church very near there, Charles Kingsley's father was rector. Kingsley himself was at Clovelly a great deal, and probably gained here his knowledge of the seas and those who sail them. One of those old fishermen last night (he who claimed to be ninety-eight) told me that he used to know Charles Kingsley well, and I suppose it is possible."

That afternoon toward tea-time, after another fascinating roam about the town,—into its back-yards and blind alleys, and along its pebbly beach,—as well as numerous exciting rides on the backs of the mules, the party gathered on the tiny veranda of the New Inn, crowding it to its utmost capacity. The purpose of this formal meeting was to decide where they should go the following morning, as they were then leaving Clovelly. Mrs. Pitt had promised them a week more of play in Devonshire before their trip to Canterbury, and she advised visits to Bideford, Minehead, Porlock, Lynton, Lynmouth, and finally Torquay. As the young people had no ideas of their own upon the subject and as they had vast confidence in anything Mrs. Pitt proposed, this plan was at once adopted.

"These places are all by the sea," Mrs. Pitt continued, "and I'm quite sure you'll like them. Torquay is just a watering-place, with big hotels, terraces, and gardens, but oh! it is so lovely, and nearby is the duckiest little village of Cockington! You'll never leave the thatched cottages there, Betty! Lynmouth is very fine, with its combination of mountain and seaside views, and its moors. Close by is the Doone Valley, which figures so prominently in the story of 'Lorna Doone,' and we'll visit that. It will all be beautiful—beautiful as only England and Devonshire can be—but you'll find nothing at all like this strange little Clovelly, so enjoy it while you may!"



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ROCHESTER AND CANTERBURY

As soon as the familiar chugging of the motor was heard at the front door in Cavendish Square, John hurried out. Just as he was examining all the chauffeur's arrangements for the trip, and looking with approval over the entire automobile, the whir of the engine suddenly gasped, struggled to catch its breath, and then ceased altogether. The chauffeur, perfectly unconcerned, swung himself off from his seat and sauntered around to "crank her up," but his expression of assurance soon changed, for the motor refused to start.

John's face was pitiful to see. "Oh, bother!" he cried, running to where the chauffeur stood, in front of the hood. "Why has it got to go and spoil it all like that! It's mean, I say! Can't you fix her? What's wrong?"

Off came the chauffeur's nicely-brushed coat, his clean hands handled oily tools, and a big streak of grease soon appeared upon his trousers. Great was his humiliation! After about fifteen minutes of disagreeable work, all was well, however,—the engine started, and the sound was again smooth and steady. John's expression was radiant, and he came to help the ladies in, while the forlorn chauffeur retired to make himself presentable.

"Now, we're off for Canterbury!" John announced triumphantly, as they at last glided around a corner into Piccadilly.

Slowly and carefully they wended their way down to London Bridge, crossed, and stopped for a moment before the site of the old Tabard Inn.

"I'm going to take you to Canterbury by the very road which Chaucer's pilgrims in all probability traveled, and I thought that to make the illusion as perfect as possible, we really should halt here in Southwark. This is where the pilgrims met, you know, and from here they set out in the lovely month of April: the 'verray perfight, gentil knight,' his son, the gay young squire, the stout Wife of Bath, the dainty prioress, the pale clerk (or scholar), the merchant with his fine beaver hat, the parson, the plowman, the pardonner, the summoner, the cook, and all the rest! They traveled on horseback, you remember, and to beguile the tedious hours when they advanced slowly along the dusty road, they took turns in telling the stories which Chaucer gives us in the wonderful 'Canterbury Tales.'"

"I never did know just why they went," Betty ventured, in some confusion lest they should laugh at her.

"Neither did I!" John promptly seconded. "Please tell us, Mrs. Pitt."

"Dear me, yes! I certainly will, for you must surely understand that!" After pausing a moment in order to think how best to make her meaning clear, Mrs. Pitt went on in her pleasant voice. "You see, pilgrimages were always made to some especial shrine! We'll take Becket's for an example. After his terrible murder, Becket was immediately canonized (that is, made a saint), and for many years a very celebrated shrine to him existed at Canterbury Cathedral. In those days, sumptuous velvets and abundant jewels adorned the shrines, and if a person journeyed to one, it meant that his sins were all atoned for. It was a very easy thing, you see. If a man had committed a wrong, all he had to do was to go to some shrine, say certain prayers there, and he thought himself forgiven. Such trips cost men practically nothing, for pilgrims might usually be freely cared for at the monasteries along the route; a man was quite sure of good company; and altogether, it was very pleasant to see the world in this way. The numerous terrible dangers to be met with only added the spice of excitement to many. In short, such numbers of poor men started off on these religious pilgrimages, leaving their families uncared for, that the clergy finally were forced to interfere. Laws were then made which compelled a man to procure a license for the privilege of going to a shrine, and these permits were not granted to all. You understand then, that toward noted shrines such as St. Thomas a Becket's, pilgrims singly and in companies were always flocking, and among these was the little group which Chaucer has made so familiar and real to us all."

"Here's Deptford," announced John by and by, seeing the name upon some sign. "What went on here?"

"What makes you think anything 'went on here'!" Mrs. Pitt exclaimed. "Fancy! What a curious boy!"

"Oh!" John burst out. "That's easy enough! I haven't seen more than about two or three places in all this country where some fellow didn't do something, or some important thing go on."

Mrs. Pitt pushed up her veil, removed her glasses, and wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. "I think you are about right, John. And something did happen here in Deptford; in fact, there were several things. First, I'll tell you that it was here that Queen Elizabeth came in 1581 and visited the ship in which Drake had been around the world. The Queen dined on board the vessel and knighted Drake while there. Event number two was the death of Christopher Marlowe, one of the greatest of all England's dramatists. Marlowe was only thirty years old when he was killed in a vulgar fight in a tavern. Fancy! Poor Anne of Cleves, after the early divorce from her royal husband, lived near Deptford, at Place House. Writers say that she used often to go up to London, and visit the Court, just as though she had not been (for a few short days, to be sure) the 'first lady of the land,' as you Americans say. Poor Anne! She always seemed a pitiful character to my mind. She couldn't help it if Henry VIII didn't find her good to look upon!"

Beyond Deptford, as they were smoothly gliding along, all at once there came a loud report.

"Goodness!" cried John. "What in the world was that!" Then he shouted with laughter at the frightened expression on Betty's face.

"Dearie me! It must be a 'blow-out'! Is that the trouble, Jo? Yes? Well, come, girls; we may as well step out." There was forced resignation in Mrs. Pitt's voice; she was trying not to mind the delay.

For forty minutes she and the girls sat by the roadside and watched the chauffeur and the two boys at work on the tire. It seemed as though every part of this operation took longer than usual. The tools seemed never so easily mislaid; it surely was a longer task than ever to inflate the tube, and then to fit on the wheel-rim. Finally, however, the three rose, grimy and dusty, but triumphant, and ready to set forth once again.