“A wire for you, Master John.”

The butler’s interruption while the family was at breakfast one August morning, caused a sudden hush of expectancy.

“A telegram for me!” replied John, trying to assume sufficient dignity for the momentous occasion,—the arrival of the first message he had ever received. “Why, what can it be?”

“Do open it, John. It must be a cable,” Betty pleaded, fearing something might be wrong at home.

“Yes, hurry, dear,” put in Mrs. Pitt.

Just the second that the contents were revealed, a great shout of joy went up, and John and Betty fairly jumped up and down in their excitement.

“Father and mother coming!” John cried. “On the way now! Taking us to Switzerland! It’s great!”

Betty’s radiant face showed what delight the prospect of seeing her father and mother gave her. Glancing at Mrs. Pitt almost at once, however, she hastened to say:

“We’re both sorry to go away from you all, though, and I hope they’ll let us come back. We’ve had such a good time in England! Don’t you think we can go on with our trip here after Switzerland?”

“I really can’t tell, dear, for this is all so unexpected. I don’t know what your father’s plans may be, but I hope he will bring you back to me. I’d be very sorry if it were all at an end! But to think I shall so soon see your father!” Mrs. Pitt sat staring into the grate, and seemed to be lost in her thoughts.

After the general commotion caused by the news had somewhat subsided, and they had all adjusted themselves to the new plans, Mrs. Pitt decided to spend the remaining week in the city, as she had still so much there to show John and Betty. The weather being quite cool and comfortable, they could easily go about.

It happened that two events of those busy days made an everlasting impression on the minds of both John and Betty. First, there was their glimpse of the King and Queen; and then, there was the fire.

As they emerged at about noon one day from the National Gallery, where Mrs. Pitt had been showing them some of the best pictures, Philip heard some one on the steps of the building say that the King and Queen had come to town to be present at the unveiling of a statue. They were soon to pass through St. James Park on their way from Whitehall, it was understood, and our friends at once hastened in that direction. For some time they waited with the crowd, and it was not exactly agreeable, for the day was damp and foggy, and a fine rain had set in. All the while, John was getting more and more aroused, and when he finally saw a small company of the Horse Guards, he so forgot himself as to shout:

“Hurrah! Here they come!”

Because of the rain, the Guards, wearing their blue capes lined with scarlet, were rather less picturesque than usual, but the black horses were as fine as ever.

“They step as if they were proud of going along with the King and Queen,” Betty said in a loud whisper to Barbara.

Between two small squadrons of the Guards came a modest closed carriage in which Their Majesties rode. Fortunately for the young visitors, they both kept bending forward and bowing very graciously from the windows, so that they could be distinctly seen. The sober British crowd was characteristically well-behaved. No demonstration of any sort was given the Royalties, except that the men removed their hats. Swiftly the carriage rolled up the wide avenue toward Buckingham Palace.

“Humph! They don’t make much fuss about it, do they?” was all John said, while Betty was especially impressed by how very much the King and Queen resembled their photographs.

The following morning an interesting trip to Smithfield was taken. Going by the “Tube,” the ride seemed a short one, and they soon found themselves at Smithfield Market.

“Have you ever seen Faneuil Hall Market in Boston?” demanded Mrs. Pitt laughingly, whereupon John and Betty, the two Bostonians, were rather ashamed to admit that they had not.

“Somehow we never have time at home,” was Betty’s remark. “And I think perhaps we never really wanted to very much, either.”

“Well, you wouldn’t understand why, then, but it always reminded me of this great Smithfield Market,” went on Mrs. Pitt and then added a bit boastfully, “I’ve been to Faneuil Hall several times.”

What they saw was a large, lofty building, with a roof of glass and iron, equipped as a most thoroughly up-to-date meat-market. A street runs directly through the center, and from this, one can get a splendid idea of both halves.

“This great barren square of Smithfield was the place where they had the tournaments in the olden days, and because of that, the name was probably once ‘Smooth-field.’ Edward III held a brilliant tournament here, and also Richard II, who invited many foreign guests to be present for that important event. The processions which preceded, as well as the tournaments themselves, were most elaborate. One old writer fairly dazzles us by his description of ‘sixty horses in rich trappings, each mounted by an esquire of honor,—and sixty ladies of rank, dressed in the richest elegance of the day following on their palfreys, each leading by a silver chain a knight completely armed for tilting. Minstrels and trumpets accompanied them to Smithfield amidst the shouting population: there the Queen and her fair train received them.’ Then this same author tells at much length of the commencing of the tournament, and says ‘they tilted each other until dark. They all then adjourned to a sumptuous banquet, and dancing consumed the night.’ For several days and nights this same performance was repeated. That gives you a slight idea of the aspect Smithfield bore in the days when it was far outside the limits of the ‘City.’”

After pausing a few minutes in her talk, while they walked about the square, Mrs. Pitt proceeded:

“In 1381, after the peasant uprising, the leader, Wat Tyler, was killed here. And then, in the reigns of ‘Bloody Mary’ and of Elizabeth, this was the place of public execution. Way back in 1305, the patriot William Wallace was hanged here, and after him came a long line of sufferers,—among them Anne Askew, Rogers, Bradford, and Philpot, who were persecuted because of their adherence to the Protestant Religion. After that terrible period, Smithfield was for many years the only cattle-market in London; and here was held Bartholomew Fair, also. Don’t you agree that this square has had about as varied a history as is very well possible?”

The church of St. Bartholomew the Great, one of the oldest and most interesting in London, is reached from Smithfield by an inconspicuous arch, which leads to a narrow walk close beside brick walls. At the further end is the faÇade of the church, which boasts of having been erected in 1123, by Rahere, who also founded the neighboring Hospital of St. Bartholomew.

Once inside the doorway, the visitor feels as though he had actually stepped back many centuries, for, as Baedeker says, “the existing church, consisting merely of the choir, the crossing, and one bay of the nave of the original Priory Church, is mainly pure Norman work, as left by Rahere.” Here again, the visitor encounters that strange atmosphere which belongs to the place pervaded by great age.

“You see,” explained Mrs. Pitt, “the church which we see is only a very small part of the original edifice as Rahere built it. The entrance from Smithfield was probably the door to the nave, which was where the grave-yard now stands. It’s curious, isn’t it, how the centuries alter things! Now, step over here, out of the way of the door, and let me tell you a bit about this old church and its founder. This Rahere was the King’s jester, who came to see the error of his ways, grew very religious, and went on a pilgrimage. While on his journey back, he became seriously ill, and turned to St. Bartholomew for healing, promising to build a hospital for poor men if his petition were granted. He was cured, and on his return to London, he built the hospital and also this church, in which he is himself buried.”

They were all delighted with this story, and went immediately to find Rahere’s tomb, of which the ancient effigy is covered by a fine canopy of much later date. One other tomb is that of Sir Walter Mildmay, who was Chancellor of the Exchequer to Queen Elizabeth, and founder of Emmanuel College, Oxford. John discovered the following quaint epitaph, which greatly amused the entire party:

This adorns the tomb of John and Margaret Whiting, in the north transept.

Some time was passed in this wonderful church,—climbing the tiny, spiral stairs up to the clerestory, and going cautiously along the bit of a walk at this dizzy height above the floor of the church.

It needs time and much study to appreciate this sad old church, which, in spite of its broken pieces of marble, and ruined splendor and perfection of form, still bravely stands,—a lonely and pathetic relic of its grand past. A young person can scarcely understand it at all; it needs a grown man or woman whose experience enables him to read in the crumbling pillars and walls, stories of the times when England was young, the Church was the great glory and power, and there still lived men who were “fair and fortunate.”

In the vicinity of Smithfield are a number of quaint nooks and corners of old London. Many consider that the very best idea of the ancient city may now be had in Cloth Fair and Bartholomew Close, both of which are in this neighborhood. Here are still standing genuine Sixteenth Century houses amid much darkness and dirt.

“Here in Bartholomew Close,” stated Mrs. Pitt, “Benjamin Franklin learned his trade of printing, and Washington Irving, John Milton, and the painter Hogarth, all lived.”

From Smithfield they hastily betook themselves, by means of hansoms, to Crosby Hall, there to have luncheon. Mrs. Pitt laughed heartily when John said how glad he was to be able to eat amid ancient surroundings. He declared that he had been spending the entire morning so very far back in the Middle Ages, that it would have been too great a shock had he been taken immediately to a vulgar, modern restaurant.

When they had finished their luncheon and were waiting on a street corner for the arrival of a certain bus, suddenly a thrill of excitement went through the crowd, all traffic was quickly drawn up at the sides of the street where it halted, and a weird cry of “Hi-yi-yi-yi-yi” was heard in the distance.

“It’s the fire-brigade,” cried Philip, whereupon he and John were tense with anticipation.

Down the cleared street came the galloping horses with the fire-engines, the men clinging to them wearing dark-blue uniforms with red bindings, big brass helmets, which gleamed in the sunshine, and hatchets in their belts.

It happened that the fire was very near where our friends were standing, so at the eager solicitations of the two boys, Mrs. Pitt consented to follow on and watch operations.

“So it really is a fire this time,” she said to Betty, as they hurried along. “We have very, very few in London, and when the brigade is out, it is generally only for exercise or practice. But, it will interest you and John to see how we fight a fire, and to observe whether the methods differ from yours.”

A building on Bishopsgate Street was really very much on fire when the party reached the spot, and the firemen were hard at work. Although the buildings are not high (or at least not according to American standards), the men use very strong ladders, which can be pulled out so that they will reach to great heights. But the queerest thing of all in John’s estimation was the way in which the people on the top floor of the building were rescued.

A long canvas tube was carried up a ladder by a fireman, who attached it to the frame of an upper window. The occupants of that floor were then slid one by one to the ground through this tube, being caught at the bottom by the firemen.

“Well, did you ever see anything like that!” cried John, amazed at the funny sight. “It’s great, I say! I’d like to try it!”

All the way up town, the talk was of fires. John had been tremendously interested in the English methods, and was planning to introduce the use of the canvas tube to his own city through a good Irish friend of his at a Boston fire-station.

“Honor bright, don’t you have many fires over here?” he demanded of Mrs. Pitt. “We have ’em all the time at home. It must be stupid here without ’em!”

“No, we really have very few,” Mrs. Pitt responded. “In winter, there are a number of small outbreaks, but those are very slight. You see, we burn soft coal, and if the chimney is not swept out quite regularly, the soot which gathers there is apt to get afire. When a chimney does have a blaze, the owner has to pay a fine of one pound, or five dollars, to make him remember his chimney. In olden times, perhaps two hundred and fifty years ago, there used to be a tax levied on every chimney in a house. There’s a curious old epitaph in a church-yard at Folkestone, which bears upon this subject. It reads something like this:

They all joined in a good laugh over this, but Betty remarked that she thought it was “more of an advertisement for a house than an epitaph.”

Their particular bus had been slowly making its way down Ludgate Hill, along Fleet Street, into the Strand, through Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus, into Piccadilly itself, and had now reached Hyde Park Corner, where our friends climbed down the stairs and swung themselves off.

Betty was grumbling just a little. “I never can get down those tiny stairs,” she exclaimed, “without almost bumping my head and catching my umbrella in the stair-rail!”

Mrs. Pitt smiled. “That shows you are not a true Londoner, my dear. We are never troubled. But, never mind; they don’t have buses in Switzerland.”

At this, Betty was instantly herself again. “London wouldn’t be London without the funny, inconvenient buses, I know. And it’s dear, every inch of it,—buses and all!”

Mrs. Pitt pointed out Apsley House, where lived the great Duke of Wellington. A curious fact about this stately old mansion is that on fine afternoons, the shadow of a nearby statue of this hero is thrown full upon the front of his former home.

As they were about to enter Hyde Park through the imposing gate, Mrs. Pitt said:—

“When we stand here and gaze at this scene before us,—the crowd, beautiful park, fine hotels, houses, and shops,—it is hard to realize that this was a dangerous, remote district as recently as 1815. That was the time of many daring robberies, you know, when it was not safe walking, riding, or even traveling in a big coach, because of the highwaymen. Even so late as the year I just mentioned, this vicinity from Hyde Park to Kensington was patrolled, and people went about in companies so as to be comparatively secure.”

The remainder of that lovely afternoon was spent in Hyde Park, watching the riding and driving. Having paid the fee of threepence each for the use of their chairs, it was pleasant to sit and look on at the gay sight. Old gentlemen, stout ladies, young people, and small children, all ride, in England, and at certain times of the day, during “the season” (May and June), Hyde Park is always filled with a merry company. In midsummer it is rather more deserted, and yet the walks stretching between the flower-beds, and the Serpentine stream, are always flocking with people on summer Sundays or “bank holidays.”

And so passed the last days which John and Betty spent in London. All the favorite spots—Westminster Abbey, the Tower, Kensington Palace, and many others—had to be revisited, just as though the young people never thought to see them again; and then, at last came the day when the father and mother were expected. They all trooped to Euston Station to meet the train, and in triumph escorted the American friends back to Cavendish Square. There they remained for two short days and then carried the almost reluctant John and Betty away with them. Mrs. Pitt, Philip, and Barbara remained behind on the platform, waving a last good-by, and still hearing the many thanks and expressions of gratitude which John and Betty had repeatedly poured into their ears, in return for their delightful visit to England.

THE END.