The big library at Mrs. Pitt’s home was a fascinating place, the two visitors thought. The ceiling was high, the wainscoting was of dark wood, and the walls were almost entirely lined with book-cases. John was delighted with some little steps, which you could push around and climb up on to reach the highest shelves. This room suggested great possibilities to both the young visitors, for, as they were to stay many months, there would certainly be days when it would be too wet to go out, and they could by no means entirely give up their reading.

As they had felt rather chilly on their bus-ride that evening, the four young people all came into the library upon their return, and drew their chairs up to the tiny grate. Betty and John had greatly enjoyed this new experience, for they had been truly English. Having jumped aboard while the bus was moving slowly, near the curb, they had scrambled up the little steps and taken the seats behind the driver. They had not noticed much about where they were going, for it had all seemed a jumble of many lights, crowds of people, and noise. But John had slipped a coin into the driver’s hand, and there had been a steady stream of stories from that moment. London bus-drivers have plenty to tell, and are not at all loath to tell it especially after the encouragement of a tip. John was delighted to hear about the time, one foggy Christmas Eve, when his friend had “sat for four hours, sir, without daring to stir, at ’Yde Park Corner.” John envied him the splendid moment when the fog had finally lifted and disclosed the great mass of traffic, which had been blinded and stalled for so long.

As John stood in front of the fire thinking it all over, he suddenly exclaimed, “It was fun to hear that driver drop his h’s; that was real Cockney for you!”

Betty looked puzzled for a moment, and then said, “Wasn’t it supposed that only people who had been born within the sound of the bells of old Bow Church could be real Cockneys?”

“That’s right, Betty; your history is good,” said Mrs. Pitt, who had just entered; “but John, I must tell you that dropping h’s is not necessarily Cockney. The peculiar pronunciation of vowels is what characterizes a true Cockney’s speech, but many others drop h’s the people of Shropshire for instance.

“Do you children remember those quaint little verses about Bow Bells?” continued Mrs. Pitt. “In the days when Dick Whittington was a boy, and worked at his trade in London, it was the custom to ring Bow Bells as the signal for the end of the day’s work, at eight o’clock in the evening. One time, the boys found that the clerk was ringing the bells too late, and indignant at such a thing, they sent the following verses to him:

“’Clerke of the Bow Bells,
With the yellow lockes,
For thy late ringing,
Thou shalt have knockes.’

“The frightened man hastened to send this answer to the boys:

“’Children of Chepe,
Hold you all stille,
For you shall have Bow Bells
Rung at your wille.’”

“That was bright of them,” commented John, as he rose to take off his coat.

Philip and Barbara had long since thrown off their wraps and pulled their chairs away from the fire, saying how warm they were. Even after John had dispensed with his coat, Betty sat just as near the tiny blaze as she could, with her coat still closely buttoned.

“No, thanks; I want to get warm,” she answered, when they spoke of it. “It seems to me that it’s very cold here. Don’t you ever have bigger fires?”

As Betty spoke, the little blaze flickered and almost went out.

“I’ll shut the window,” said Philip. “I remember, now, how cold Americans always are over here. Mother has told us how frightfully hot you keep your houses. We don’t like that, for we never feel the cold. Why, just to show you how accustomed to it we English are, let me tell you what I read the other day. At Oxford University, up to the time of King Henry VIII, no fires were permitted. Just before going to bed the poor boys used to go out and run a certain distance, to warm themselves. Even I shouldn’t care for that!”

“Let’s make some plans for to-morrow,” exclaimed Mrs. Pitt. “What should you like to see first, Betty?”

“I want to go somewhere on a bus!” was John’s prompt answer, at which everybody laughed except Betty.

“Oh, yes, but let’s go to Westminster Abbey just as soon as possible, John. I’ve always wanted so much to see it, that I don’t believe I can wait now. Think of all the great people who have been associated with it,” said Betty very earnestly.

“Very well, I quite agree on taking you first to the Abbey,” said Mrs. Pitt. “It is a place of which I could never tire, myself. And strange to say, I very seldom, if ever, get time to go there, except when I’m showing it to strangers. Why! It’s twenty-five minutes past nine this very minute, children; you must go to bed at once!”