In Charing Cross Station one morning, Mrs. Pitt hurried up to the “booking-office,” as the English call the ticket-office, to “book” five tickets to Penshurst. While the man was getting her change, she turned and said to Philip:

“Please ask that guard who is standing there, on which platform we shall find the 9.40 train for Penshurst.”

Philip did so, and returned with the information that they should go to Platform 8. So they all mounted the steps and walked over the foot-bridge which always runs across and above all the tracks, in an English station. There was a bench on the platform, and they sat down to await the arrival of the train. About 9.35, five minutes before the train was to start, John happened to see a train official sauntering by, and asked him if it was correct that the Penshurst train left from that platform.

The man stared. “Really, you are quite mistaken,” he drawled; “that train leaves from Platform 2. You had better hurry, you know; you haven’t much time.”

John waited for nothing more, but ran to tell the rest, and they all started for the other end of the station. Up the steep steps again ran Mrs. Pitt, with the four young people following. Along the bridge they flew till they reached Platform 2, and then they almost fell down the steps in their hurry, for the train was already there.

When they were fairly seated in a third-class carriage, John, still out of breath, exclaimed:

“Whew! My! I never ran faster in my life, did you, Philip? How the girls kept up, I don’t know! You’re a first-class sprinter all right, Mrs. Pitt! We’d like you on our football team, at home! My, but I’m hot!”

He paused for breath, and then went on excitedly:

“There was a close call for you! We’d have lost it if I hadn’t spoken to that guard, just in fun! There we were calmly waiting, and all of a sudden, we took that wild dash across the bridge! It was great! I hope somebody caught a photograph of us! I’d like to see one! How stupid of the guard to make that mistake! They never seem to know very much, anyway. If I ever am a guard, I shall be different; I shall know things!”

They all had a good laugh over the adventure, and Mrs. Pitt assured John that when he was a guard, they would all promise to use his station.

“Don’t these trains seem different from ours, Betty?” the future guard asked of his sister. “It seems so queer to me why they want to take a perfectly good, long car, and chop it up from side to side, into little narrow rooms, like this! What’s the use of having so many doors? one on each side of every ‘compartment’! And then, they put handles only on the outside, so you have to let down the window and lean away out to open it for yourself, if the guard doesn’t happen to do it for you! We Americans couldn’t waste so much time!”

Just then, Betty, who could contain herself no longer, burst out laughing.

“Why, what in the world’s the matter?” cried Barbara.

Betty could only point to a passing train. “It’s only the funny little freight cars!” she finally explained, rather ashamed that she had let her feelings escape in that way. “They look so silly to us! They seem about a third the size of the ones at home. Really, these remind me of a picture in my history-book, of the first train ever run in America!”

Mrs. Pitt smiled. “Yes, I can imagine just how strange they must seem to you, for I remember very well how I felt the first time I ever rode in one of your trains. To me, one of the most interesting things about visiting a foreign country, is to see the different modes of travel.”

“Oh, please understand that I think so, too!” urged Betty. “It was only that I couldn’t help laughing just at first, you see. I wouldn’t have your trains just like ours for anything, and I’m sure that John wouldn’t either.”

“Now,” said Mrs. Pitt, “there is a little confession which I feel that I ought to make. It’s about where we are going to-day. Probably most people would blame me for not taking you to Windsor or Hampton Court, on your first trip out of town. Both those places are charming, but I wanted to show you, first of all, this dear little corner of Kent. All tourists flock to Windsor and Hampton Court, but a great many do not know about this tiny, out-of-the-way village, with which I fell in love years ago. Penshurst Place was the home of Sir Philip Sidney, and is still owned by a member of the same family. You know that Sir Philip lived in Queen Elizabeth’s time, and that his name stands for the model of a perfect courtier and ideal gentleman. He died when he was very young only thirty-two, I think and he did very little which you would suppose could have made him so famous. That is, it was little in comparison with what Raleigh and Drake accomplished, and yet the name of Sidney ranks with all the rest. It seems to have been more in the way he did things, than in what he did. Of course, you remember the story of his death, that when he was dying, he passed a cup of water which was brought him, to another dying soldier, saying, ’Thy need is greater than mine.’ Well, to-day we shall see where he was born and bred, where Ben Jonson, Edmund Spenser, and Queen Elizabeth all visited.”

They were now riding through Kent, in which county is some of the most picturesque English scenery. Although it was only the last of April, the grass was the freshest green, the great trees were in full leaf, and primroses were beginning to spring up in the fields. They sped through little villages of thatched-roofed cottages, each with its tiny garden of gay flowers. There were little crooked lanes, bordered by high hedges, and wide, shady roads, with tall, stately elms on either side, and fields where sheep grazed.

“Oh, there’s a cottage which looks like Anne Hathaway’s!” exclaimed Betty. “It couldn’t be, could it? Anyway, it’s real story-book country!”

They left the train at the little station of Penshurst, two miles from the village. Behind the building stood a queer, side-seated wagon, with one stout horse. The driver, when Philip found him, seemed loath to bestir himself, but was finally persuaded to drive them to the castle.

Penshurst village proved to be even prettier than those they had seen from the train. The Lord of Penshurst Place is a very wise, appreciative man, and he has made a rule that when any cottage in the village is found to be beyond repair, it shall be replaced by a new house exactly like the original. In consequence, the houses look equally old and equally attractive, with their roofs of grayish thatch, and the second stories leaning protectingly over the lower windows, overgrown with rose-vines.

Mrs. Pitt went into the tiny post-office to buy their tickets of admission to the castle, and when she called out that there were also pretty post-cards to be had, the others quickly followed. Having chosen their cards, they all walked through the little church-yard, with its ancient yew trees, and out into a field from which they could see Penshurst Place itself.

“Why! isn’t it a huge place!” cried Barbara. “This is just as new to Philip and me, you know, Betty, for we have never been here, either.”

“How charmingly situated it is!” exclaimed Mrs. Pitt enthusiastically. “Just a glance at it would tell you that it was never a strong fortress. Like Raby Castle, another favorite of mine, I believe that Penshurst never stood a siege. But it is so stately and graceful, standing in the center of these perfect lawns and groups of noble old trees! It is a beautiful contrast to the many fortress-castles! This seems to speak of peace, happiness, and safety.”

The castle covers a great deal of ground, and is low and square, with here and there a turret. A terrace, or broad walk, runs the length of the front of the building, where the moat formerly was, and the party crossed this to reach the entrance-way. His Lordship came out just then, with his dog, and glanced kindly at the eager young people. Continuing, they crossed a square court, and came to a second gateway, where a servant met them and conducted them into the old-time Baronial-hall, dating from the fourteenth century.

“This,” announced the guide with tremendous pride, “we believe to be the only banquet-hall now remaining in England, where the ancient fireplace in the center of the room still exists. You’ll see many fine halls, but you’ll not see another such fireplace.”

John went up to investigate, and found that right in the middle of the vast room was a high hearth, on which some logs were piled. “But how ?” he was asking, when the guide’s explanations flowed on once more:

“Yes, the smoke went out through a little hole in the roof. This hall has never been restored, you see. That’s the best thing about it, most people think, lady. Here’s the oak paneling, turned gray with age; there, up on the wall, are the original grotesque figures, carved in wood; here, are two of the old tables, as old as the hall; and there’s the musicians’ gallery, at that end, over the entrance.”

Mrs. Pitt was leaning against one of the massive tables, with her eyes partly closed. “Let’s just imagine the grand feasts which have been held here,” she mused. “I can almost see the Lord and Lady, dressed in purple and scarlet, sitting with their guests at a table across this end of the room. A board stretches down the length of the hall, and here sit the inferiors and retainers. A long procession of servants is winding always around the tables, bearing great roasts, birds, pasties, and all sorts of goodies, on huge platters, high above their heads. Up in the gallery here, the musicians are playing loudly and gayly, and even when they cease the guests do not lack for entertainment, for the fool, in his dress of rainbow colors, is continually saying witty things and propounding funny riddles. In such a place much elegance and ceremony were the necessary accompaniments of a grand feast. In a book giving instructions for the serving of the Royal table, is this direction, which always interested me: ’First set forth mustard with brawn; take your knife in your hand, and cut the brawn in the dish, as it lieth, and lay on your Sovereign’s trencher, and see that there be mustard.’ As you see, they were exceedingly fond of mustard. Richard Tarleton, an actor of Queen Elizabeth’s time, who was much at Court as jester, is reported as having called mustard ’a witty scold meeting another scold.’”

The guide was growing impatient, and Mrs. Pitt ceased, saying reluctantly, “Well, I suppose we must go on.”

A servant rang a bell, and soon, down some stairs came a dear little old lady dressed in stiff black silk, with white apron and cap, and mitts on her hands. She escorted the party up the stairs, into her domain.

“Wouldn’t you just know to look at her that she had been in the family all her life?” whispered Barbara to Betty.

First they saw the Ball-room, a stately apartment in which hang three very valuable chandeliers, which Queen Elizabeth gave to Sir Henry Sidney. The next room is still called “Queen Elizabeth’s Room,” for here that Queen slept when upon a visit to the house. The same furniture which she used is still in place, as well as some tapestries made in honor of the visit, by Lady Sidney.

“If Queen Elizabeth slept in that bed,” remarked Betty, “she couldn’t have been very tall.”

Their guide, taking this as criticism of one of her beloved treasures, was quick to say:

“It only looks short, because it’s so uncommon wide, begging your pardon, Miss.”

“Did that stool belong to anybody?” questioned Barbara, tactfully changing the subject. “It looks as if it has a history.”

“And it has, Miss; that stool was used by the late Queen Victoria (God bless her!), at her coronation at Westminster Abbey!” and the loyal old lady patted the black velvet stool respectfully.

The rooms and corridors of the old house are crowded with things of interest. Sir Philip’s helmet is there, and a bit of his shaving-glass. In a small room called the “Pages’ Closet,” are preserved rare specimens of china Queen Elizabeth’s dessert-set, in green, and Queen Anne’s breakfast-set, in blue and white. Betty and Barbara were deeply interested in Mary Stuart’s jewel-case, and they laughed over a very curious old painting which shows Queen Elizabeth dancing. The long picture-gallery is lined with portraits most of them Sidneys and among them those of the mother of Sir Philip, and of his sister, the Countess of Pembroke, for whom he wrote his “Arcadia.”

When they again passed through the Ball-room on their way out, they were shown a little square window on one of the walls, which they had not noticed before.

“Why! I can see down into the Banquet-hall!” exclaimed Philip, who had climbed up to look through.

“Yes,” said their guide, “in the olden times, the master at the ball could look through there to see how the servants were behaving, down in the hall below.”

Out on the lawn again, they lingered for a few minutes while Mrs. Pitt reminded them that there is every reason to believe that under those very trees Spenser wrote his “Shepherd’s Calendar.”

Reluctantly they left the castle and walked back to the carriage, which awaited them in the village.

“If all English castles are as beautiful as Penshurst Place,” declared Betty earnestly, “I can’t go back to America until I have seen every one!”