The first thing that Betty heard the following morning was a gentle knock upon her bedroom door, and a voice saying, “It’s seven o’clock, and will you have some sticks, Miss?”

“What sticks? What for?” Betty asked sleepily.

They were for a fire, it seemed, and Betty welcomed the idea. She was soon dressed, and Barbara came to show her the way to the breakfast-room.

“You can’t think how good it does seem not to be thrown about while dressing, as we were on the steamer! Do you know that I can’t help stepping up high over the door-sills even yet!” laughed Betty, as they went downstairs together. “Mrs. Moore, the friend of mother’s in whose care we came, you know, told me that I should probably feel the motion for some time after landing.”

To the surprise of John and Betty, there was a very hearty breakfast awaiting them. They had expected the meager tea, toast, and jam, which some Americans consider to be customary in English homes, because it is encountered in the hotels.

Early in the morning, the buses were even more crowded than the night before, and they had some difficulty in finding seats. John placed himself beside a soldier dressed in a scarlet coat and funny little round cap held on sidewise by a strap across his chin, with every intention of starting up a conversation with him; but one glance at his superior air discouraged the boy from any such attempt. When they arrived at Trafalgar Square again, they jumped off, and walked down towards the towers of the Houses of Parliament. In front of the Horse Guards they stood in admiration of the two mounted sentries, stationed there.

“Those black horses are great!” cried John. “How fine those fellows do look sitting there like statues in their scarlet uniforms, and their shiny helmets with the flying tails to them! I only wish I could be a Guard, and ride a horse like one of those!”

“Would you rather be a Horse Guard, or a bus-driver, John?” asked Betty teasingly.

“Sometimes you see dozens of the Guards together; that’s a fine sight!” said Barbara, after the laugh had subsided. “They escort the King when he goes out in state. Oh, you’ll see them often.”

That comforted John somewhat, but he could not resist turning around for several glances towards the gateway where the Guards were.

“Why do they always stand there?” he questioned.

Mrs. Pitt explained that they were organized by Charles II, who needed all possible protection to enable him to hold the throne after his exile in foreign lands. After the days of Cromwell, times were very unsettled, and many disturbances were likely to occur. Hence the duty of these Guards was probably to keep the peace (the ’prentices and common people were very hot-headed), and to escort the King, as they still do.

“Perhaps,” she went on, “you don’t understand who the ’prentices were. Long ago it was the custom to apprentice boys to one of the great and powerful guilds or companies. These were organizations of many merchants belonging to the same trade; such as shipbuilders, carpenters, candle-makers, and so forth. Their main object was to see that the work which was turned out was good. Every man belonged to his guild; some were for ‘common and middling folks,’ while kings and princes were members of others. A great deal of good was done by these companies, for each, besides aiding and protecting its own members, usually had some other charity. For instance, the guild at Lincoln fed yearly as many poor as there were members of the guild; and another kept a sort of inn for the shelter of poor travelers. The guilds played an important part in the life of the time. Well, as I was saying, when a boy had chosen the trade which was to his taste, he went to the city, and was apprenticed to a member of one of the guilds, with whom he usually lived. The boys were called ’prentices. Their life was not an easy one, and yet, it seems to me that they must have enjoyed it. In those days, there were great tournaments and grand processions of kings, with hundreds of servants and followers, all splendidly dressed in brilliant colors. Men wore magnificent clothes of silks and velvets and cloth-of-gold, with costly jewels, such as ropes of pearls; and their servants, whose duty it was to go before their masters on the street, wore suits of livery with the silver badge of their master. London in those days was a wonderfully busy place! On board the ships sailing up the river were men in strange costumes, from foreign lands. The ’prentices would often stop work to watch a company of Portuguese sailors pass, or a gorgeous procession of bishops with their retainers; and from this little verse we know that they did not always return very quickly to their duties. Do you know this?

There were always processions, too, in winter as well as in summer, for the people seemed not to mind rain or storm in the least. The boys had many holidays,—there were frequent pageants, feasts, and celebrations of all kinds,—and on the whole, I think they must have been very happy in spite of the long hours of work, don’t you? Another curious custom was the keeping of cudgels in every shop for the use of the ’prentices, in case of a fight—and I imagine that they were numerous. Now, come close to me, children, while we cross this street; there’s the Abbey right ahead of us.”

As they entered the north transept of Westminster Abbey, the dim light, in contrast to the sunshine outside, was almost blinding. At first, all was indistinct except the great rose-window, in the opposite transept, through which the light strayed in many colors. The morning service was in progress, so they sat down near the door, and listened and looked. How beautiful!—how tremendous it all was! Even John’s overflowing spirits were quieted, it was so wonderfully impressive! The rose-window still stood out clearly against the deep shadows all about it, but a faint light could now be seen coming in through the little windows, high up near the roof,—the clerestory windows, they are called. Betty could see the massive roof, the long aisles crowded with marble monuments, and the pillars. The canon’s voice was heard intoning in a deep, monotonous key; reading followed, and then some one sang, in a high, clear voice, which seemed to come from far away, and yet to fill all the space of the great building. Betty could not have spoken a word; she was filled with a kind of wondering awe such as she had never known before.

John, more matter-of-fact, was examining the statues nearest to him.

He touched Betty’s arm to attract her attention, and said, “See, there are lots of statues here, Betty, but I only know the names of William Pitt and Benjamin Disraeli, ‘Twice Prime-Minister.’ Do you remember him? Wonder if William Pitt was an ancestor of our Mrs. Pitt!” he rambled on, not seeing that his sister took no notice of him.

As for Betty, she scarcely knew that any one had spoken to her. She seemed to be back in the Middle Ages, and the present had vanished away.

When the service was ended, they walked about, examining the monuments as they went.

“This long, broad aisle extending from the main entrance to the choir is called the nave,” explained Mrs. Pitt. “The shorter aisles which form the crossing are the transepts, and the choir is always the eastern end of the building, containing the altar. These are facts which you will want to learn and remember.”

“The kings and queens are all buried here, aren’t they, Mrs. Pitt?” questioned John. “Will they put King Edward here, too, when he dies?”

“A great many kings and queens are buried here, though not all,” Mrs. Pitt told them. “The Royal Tombs are there, behind those gates, in the chapels which surround the choir. We can’t go in there unless we take a guide, and I thought we would wait for another day to visit the lovely chapel of Henry VII and all the famous tombs. I don’t want you to see too much at one time. No, John, King Edward probably will not be buried here. Queen Victoria, his mother, lies at a place called Frogmore, near Windsor, and it is likely that her son will choose that spot, also. Here’s the Poets’ Corner, and there is at least one face which I’m sure you will be glad to see. This is it.”

As she spoke, the party stopped in front of the well-known bust of our poet, Longfellow, which I suppose every American is proud to see.

“So they read ‘Hiawatha,’ even in England,” Betty remarked.

“There are tablets all over the floor, under our feet! Look, I’m standing on Dickens’ grave this very minute! And there’s ‘Oh, Rare Ben Jonson,’ right there on the wall; I’ve always heard of that. And here’s Spenser, and Chaucer, and Browning, and Tennyson, very close together. Oh! It’s dreadful! I don’t want to step on them! Why, everybody who ever was anybody seems to be here!” gasped John, forgetting his grammar in his interest.

“Here are busts of Scott (there’s the man for me!), and Burns, Goldsmith, and Coleridge; I know all these names. Here’s a statue of Shakespeare, though of course he isn’t buried here. There’s a tablet to Jenny Lind. Wasn’t she a singer? Seems to me I’ve heard my grandpa speak of her. And, if here isn’t Thackeray’s grave—there in the floor again! Well! Well!”

“Come over here, John, and see this,” called Philip, pointing to a tomb on which was this inscription:

“Well, that beats them all!” laughed John, who was greatly pleased.

Mrs. Pitt now led the rest into the little chapel of St. Faith, off the south transept, where they sat down to rest.

“It’s the most wonderful place I ever dreamed of!” said Betty quietly, as though she were talking to herself. “This little chapel is the quaintest, oldest thing I ever saw! The walls are so dark; that tiny window up so high, hardly lets in any light at all; and the altar, with the faded picture, is so strange! I can’t believe it is the twentieth century; the people in the Abbey now don’t seem real to me at all. They look so small and shadowy beside the huge statues of people of other days! Surely the people the statues represent belong here, and not we! Why, I feel so far back in history that I shouldn’t be in the least surprised to see Raleigh, or Chaucer, or Queen Elizabeth, walk into this chapel, right now! I should probably go up and say ‘How do you do?’” she added laughingly.

Betty did not know that any one had heard her talking, but Mrs. Pitt had been listening, and when Betty was silent, she said:

“Come, let’s go out into the sunshine of the cloisters now. I am really afraid to have Betty stay in here any longer! The first thing we know, she’ll be disappearing into the Middle Ages! She’s almost there now!”

As they went through the low door into the cloisters, she continued, “I want to explain to you children, that in connection with this Abbey, as with all, there was for centuries a great monastery; and that the buildings which we shall see, as well as the cloisters, had to do with the monks. Henry VIII dissolved all the monasteries in England, you remember.”

The ancient cloisters of Westminster Abbey are deeply interesting and impressive. They are four arcades built around the square grass-plot, which was the monks’ burial-ground. The fine tracery of the windows is now much broken, and is crumbling away with age, but its exquisite carving is still plainly seen. The original pavement yet remains; it is much worn by the feet of the monks, and is almost covered by tablets which mark the resting-places of the abbots, as well as of others. The members of our party were touched, as are all, by the pathetic simplicity of the epitaph: “Jane Lister, Dear Childe, 1688.” Those four short words suggest a sad story about which one would like to learn more.

“You must know,” said Mrs. Pitt, “that the cloisters were something besides burial-places. Here the monks spent most of their time, for this was the center of the life of the monastery. The southern cloister, over opposite, was the lavatory, and there the monks were forced to have their heads shaved,—every two weeks in summer, and every three in winter. These walls were then painted with frescoes, the floor and benches were covered with rushes or straw, the windows were partly glazed, and lamps hung from the ceiling. In one of the cloisters was held a class of novices, taught by a master, and this was the beginning of Westminster School. I believe the pupils were allowed to speak only French. How would you like that?”

Adjoining the cloisters are numerous little passageways, with low arches, which lead into tiny courts dotted with flowers and little fountains. In the houses about, live the canons of the Abbey and others connected with the church. Lovely glimpses of sunlight and the bright colors of flowers are seen at the ends of these dark, ancient passages.

Westminster School may also be reached from the cloisters. Our party stood a moment in the doorway of the schoolroom to see the splendid old hall, with its fine oaken roof. This was once the dormitory of the monks, but is now taken up with the boys’ “forms,” or desks, piled with books. The walls above the wainscoting, and the window-recesses, are covered with signatures of the scholars,—some of them famous, for the school was begun as long ago as the time of Henry VIII, who was the founder. The visitor may see the name of the poet, Dryden, on one of the desks; he was a pupil there, as were also Sir Christopher Wren, the architect; Ben Jonson; Southey, the poet; and John and Charles Wesley.

“What is that iron bar for?” questioned the curious John, pointing to a long bar which stretches from wall to wall, across the middle of the room.

“That divides the Upper and Lower Classes,” was the prompt reply of Mrs. Pitt, whose stock of knowledge seemed endless. “At one time, a curtain was hung over that bar. Don’t you know the story which is told in the ‘Spectator Papers,’ about the boy who accidentally tore a hole in this curtain? He was a timid little fellow, and was terrified at the thought of the punishment which he felt sure would be his. One of his classmates came to the rescue, saying that he would take the blame upon himself, which he did. It was years later, when the timid boy had become a great judge, that the Civil War broke out, and he and his friend took opposite sides. The kind man who had saved his friend from punishment was a Royalist, and was captured and imprisoned at Exeter, where the other man happened to come at the same time, with the Circuit Court. At the moment when nothing remained but to sentence the ‘rebels,’ the judge recognized his friend, and by making a very hurried trip to London, he was able to secure a pardon from Cromwell, and thus succeeded in saving the man’s life.”

“That was fine!” said John. “He did pay him back after all, didn’t he? I thought he wasn’t going to.”

“Now, we will just look into the Chapter House and the old Jerusalem Chamber, before we go,” said Mrs. Pitt, as they left the school.

The Chapter House is a beautiful, eight-sided room, dating from the thirteenth century. Here the business of the monastery was always conducted, and at the meetings which came every week, the monks were allowed to speak freely, and to make complaints, if they wished. Here also the monks were punished.

“They used to whip them against that central pillar, there,” the guard explained. “Here sat the abbot, opposite the door, and the monks sat on benches ranged around the room. Parliament met here for many years, too, its last session in this room being on the day that the great King Hal died.”

The Chapter House has been restored now, and the windows are of modern stained-glass. In the cases are preserved some valuable documents, the oldest being a grant of land, made by King Offa, in 785.

To reach the Jerusalem Chamber, it is necessary to go through a part of the cloisters, and into the court of the Deanery. On one side is the old abbot’s refectory, or dining-hall, where the Westminster school-boys now dine. John went boldly up the steps and entered. After a few minutes, he came running out again, exclaiming:

“Nobody stopped me, so I went right in, and looked around. A maid was setting the tables, and I noticed that she stared at me, but she didn’t say anything, so I stayed. The hall is great! It isn’t very large, but is paneled and hung with portraits. The old tables, a notice says, are made from wood taken from one of the vessels of the Spanish Armada. Wonder how they found it and brought it here! I was just going to ask the maid, when a savage-looking man appeared and said I had no business there. So I came away. I don’t care; I saw it, anyway!” he added, as they approached the entrance of the Jerusalem Chamber.

All three sides of this little court were the abbot’s lodgings, and are now the deanery. The Jerusalem Chamber was built about 1376, as a guest-chamber for the abbot’s house.

“The name is curious, isn’t it?” remarked Mrs. Pitt. “It probably came from some tapestries which formerly hung there, representing the history of Jerusalem. It was in this room, right here in front of the fireplace, according to tradition, that Henry IV died. A strange dream had told the King that he would die in Jerusalem, and he was actually preparing for the journey there, when he was taken very ill, and they carried him into this room. When he asked where they had brought him, and the reply was, ‘To the Jerusalem Chamber,’ he died satisfied. Many bodies have lain here in state, too,—among them, that of Joseph Addison, whom they afterwards buried in the Abbey. When we come again, I will show you his grave. Now, notice the bits of ancient stained-glass in the windows, and the cedar paneling; except for that, there is nothing specially noteworthy here.”

As they left the Dean’s Yard and crossed the open space in front of the great western towers of the Abbey, John and Betty agreed that if they could see nothing more in England, they were already repaid for their long journey across the ocean.