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.”