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.

“There’s the Abbey right ahead of us.”—Page 25.

“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