Betty could scarcely sit still in the train which was carrying her towards Mansfield, from sheer excitement at the anticipation of actually seeing the haunts of Robin Hood. Ever since Mrs. Pitt had mentioned that town as the gateway of the Sherwood Forest of Betty’s dreams, the name had seemed an enchanted one to her. As they had come only the comparatively short journey from Leeds, they arrived at Mansfield in the middle of the morning, and being Friday, the public square presented its usual busy scenes of market-day. Vendors were shouting their wares, long-suffering babies who had been unwillingly brought along were crying, women were loudly chattering in shrill voices, and a poor little dog, who in some mysterious way was being made to play a part in a Punch and Judy Show, was yelping piteously.

“Well,” began Betty, who could think of only Robin Hood her dear hero, whose story was about to be made even more vivid to her “perhaps this is the very market where he came when he had bought out the butcher’s stock of meat and was selling it for kisses to the lasses of the town. Oh, do you suppose it is the same place?”

“Why, no!” interrupted John, in the decisive tones which he always used when confident of his superior knowledge. “‘Nottingham Town’ was where Robin Hood and his whole gang of fellows always went!”

“Yes, that was really more associated with the famous outlaw than Mansfield. You’ll see Nottingham this afternoon, or, at any rate, to-morrow. Now, come this way to the Swan Hotel. While you girls unpack, I’ll see that some horses are harnessed so that we can soon set off to the forest.” Mrs. Pitt then led the way from the market-square toward the inn of which she had spoken.

Before the carriage was ready, the young people had thoroughly explored this remarkable old house. Perhaps the most notable thing about it is the spiral staircase of solid oak, which is three hundred years old; but the entire building is filled with little passages and unexpected, remote nooks and corners, which, like the quaint bedrooms, are crowded with curios, old pictures, and superb antique furniture. Betty declared she had never seen such a “darling old four-poster” as the one which stood in her room, the favorite Number Nine for which all visitors clamor. Altogether, they considered it a most delightful place, and Betty thought that without too great a stretch of the imagination, she could even think of Robin Hood or Little John there.

The hostess hastened to prepare a delicious, early lunch especially for the party, and having partaken of it, they went at once to the open carriage which was drawn up in the odd little inn-yard. John, as usual, claimed the seat beside the driver, the others settled themselves, and they started off.

No sooner had they reached the open country than Betty’s pent-up spirits overflowed entirely.

“Oh, do you see that little river flowing through the meadows?” she suddenly cried, standing up to point at it excitedly. “See the reeds along its edges, the field of tall grain, and the old tree trunk which has fallen across the water! I just know that must be the place where Robin first met Little John. They had a fight on a narrow foot-bridge, you know, and Little John (who wasn’t ‘little’ at all) was the stronger, and tumbled Robin Hood over into the brook. Don’t you remember, John? That looks exactly like the picture in my Howard Pyle’s ‘Robin Hood,’ at home. Oh, I’m perfectly sure it must be the same place! Aren’t you, Mrs. Pitt?”

This enthusiasm of Betty’s was soon caught by the rest, and during the whole afternoon they took turns in telling, one after another, the “Merry Adventures of Robin Hood,” as they recalled them. There could not be a section of country which more perfectly suggests the setting for that particular group of legends which has been associated with it. Here surely is the identical woodland through which Robin Hood and his merry men roamed. No one could possibly mistake it! Here are the very same trees, behind which one can almost see lurking the men in “Lincoln green.” Here are ideal little glades carpeted with dainty ferns, here and there touched with the sunlight which flashes between the leaves. Sometimes the road emerges from the forest, and winds along through broad fields, the “high road” bordered by green meadows and hedgerows.

“You know,” began Mrs. Pitt, her eyes sparkling with fun, “when Robin and his men had been in hiding for some days or weeks, perhaps, because the old Sheriff of Nottingham was trying particularly hard to catch them at the time, some of the most venturesome ones, not being able to exist longer under the restraint, would start off in search of adventure; and leaving a bit reluctantly the heart of Sherwood Forest, they always made straight for the ‘high road.’ Now in just such a place as this, by the cross-roads, Little John, garbed as a gray friar, met the three lasses who were carrying their eggs to the market at Tuxford. He swung one basket from his rosary, about his neck, and took one in either hand, and thus he accompanied the maids to town. Am I right? Is that the tale?”

“Yes,” continued Philip, taking up the story where his mother had left off; “then he went to a ‘fair, thatched inn,’ you know, and he sat drinking with the tinker, the peddler, and the beggar, when the two rich brothers from Fountains Abbey came out to start again on their journey to York. Little John thought there’d be some fun, and perhaps some good money for him, if he decided to go part of the way with them, so he did. Don’t you remember that one brother was very tall and thin, and the other very short and stout? They were proud and ashamed of being seen on the road in the company of a poor friar whose gown was too short for him, as was Little John’s. But he insisted upon staying by, and strode along between their two nags. Whenever they met anybody beggars, fair lords and ladies, or fat Bishops Little John called out: ‘Here we go; we three!’”

“And then,” broke in Betty, her face literally radiant, “don’t you know how Little John finally robbed them? That was best of all! When they came to a certain parting of the ways, he did consent to leave them, but first he asked for a few pence, as he was poor. Both brothers declared that they hadn’t any money, at which Little John insisted upon their kneeling down on the dusty road and praying to the good St. Dunstan to send them each ten shillings, so that they could continue their journey in safety and comfort. You know, he thought it such a pity for two such worthy brothers to be in sore need of food and drink!” The children were unconsciously lapsing into the language of the Robin Hood stories, as they rattled on and on.

“Well,” Betty went on, “Little John prayed and prayed, and then he asked the brothers to feel and see if the good St. Dunstan hadn’t sent them something. Time after time this performance was repeated, and still they said they had nothing. Finally Little John himself felt in their pouches and found, oh, heaps of money! He left the brothers ten shillings each, and carried away the rest, saying he was sure that the good St. Dunstan had meant it for him! Oh, I think I like Little John best of all, almost better even than Robin Hood! He always did such cute things!”

By this time, they were nearing some of the big palaces which gave this section of the country the name of “The Dukeries,” from the fact that so many noblemen have lived there. Earl Manvers, the Duke of Newcastle, and the Duke of Portland, all have tremendous estates between the towns of Worksop and Edwinstowe. Some of the stately houses were pointed out in the distance behind the trees, but neither Barbara nor Betty, Philip nor John, paid the slightest heed to them. Their minds were fixed on Robin Hood, and they saw only the Sherwood Forest which he knew. When Betty looked at Clumber House, across a pretty little lake, she only said:

“Perhaps near that lake was where Robin found Alan-a-Dale, the dear minstrel.”

“Oh, no, Betty; it was by a fountain that he found Alan-a-Dale,” Barbara politely corrected.

“Yes, that’s so, Barbara,” Betty replied, in all seriousness. “I forgot.”

There was one thing upon the estate of the Duke of Portland which did greatly interest the party, however; that is, an old gnarled oak which is called “Robin Hood’s Larder.”

“Ye see, ’e came ’ere to store ’is venison, and to ’ang it up to dry. ’E was a clever chap, ’e was. ’E ’id it inside the trunk.” The driver grinned from ear to ear, as he gave this valuable information.

Getting out to explore, the children found that the huge tree is hollow, and propped up to postpone the sad day when it will surely collapse altogether. Many old tree-trunks, all over Sherwood Forest, are like this, and in some of them John could stretch his full length upon the ground. Near “Robin Hood’s Larder” is the spot where, according to Scott, the outlaw met with King Richard of the Lion Heart, or, at least, so say the local guidebooks.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pitt, understanding at once; “don’t you remember that in Scott’s ‘Ivanhoe’? Another version of this famous meeting is in Howard Pyle’s book. King Richard was at Nottingham Town, you know, and having a curious desire to meet with Robin Hood, he and his friends went into Sherwood Forest, dressed as friars. Robin and his men found them, of course, and made them guests at a feast. Later, there was shooting, and Robin Hood, having once missed the mark, applied to the King, whom he did not recognize, for a punishment. Thereupon King Richard arose, rolled up his sleeve, and gave such a blow as Robin had never felt before. It was afterwards that Sir Richard of the Lea appeared upon the scene, and disclosed the identity of the powerful stranger. Then Robin Hood, Little John, Will Scarlet, and Alan-a-Dale followed the King to London at the royal wish, and left Sherwood for many a long day.”

They were now passing through a very dense part of the wood. Close about the feet of the oaks, a thick, tangled underbrush grows. Some of the old trees seem to be gray with age, and their whitish, twisted branches offer a sharp contrast to the dark shadows, and make a weird, ghostlike effect.

“Oh!” exclaimed Betty, “it must have been in just such a spot as this in the forest that Gurth in ‘Ivanhoe’ suddenly came upon a company of Robin Hood’s men. Gurth was the Saxon, you know. He had been to Isaac, the Jew, at York, and was carrying back the ransom money to his master, Ivanhoe. Of course, poor Gurth thought he would surely be robbed, when he discovered in whose society he was; but as you said, Mrs. Pitt, Robin Hood never took money from honest men, especially when it was not their own. They led Gurth farther and farther into the depths of Sherwood. I can just imagine it was a place like this, where the moonlight lit up these ghostly trees, and the red glow of the camp-fire showed Gurth’s frightened face. He was quite safe, though, for he proved that the money was his master’s, and Robin let him go, and even showed him the way to the ‘skirts of the forest,’ as he did the Sheriff of Nottingham.”

All this time the carriage had been rolling along, and as they neared an open space in the forest, John suddenly caught sight of something which made him turn to his friend, the driver, and exclaim: “Oh, what are they?”

Stretching away for quite a distance on either side of the road were rows and rows of tiny, peaked houses or coops. The coachman told them that here was where they breed the pheasants which are hunted. When the birds have reached a certain age, they are set free, and a gun is fired in their midst to give them a taint of the wild. John was much interested, in spite of the fact that he considered it “a mean trick.” It really does not seem quite fair to take excellent, kindly care of any animal or bird, allow it to believe you are its friend, and then to suddenly turn it loose and proceed to hunt it for mere sport.

In strange contrast to the merry drive through Sherwood Forest, was a little incident which occurred in a village on the edge of “The Dukeries” district, where they halted to water the horses. On one side of the quaint main street is a row of old, old houses, where for many years have lived the aged people who are usually provided for by the nobleman to whom that village belongs.

All the tiny houses were empty at the time of this visit, with the exception of one where lived a dear old lady, by herself, her neighbors having all died. Mrs. Pitt went in to call upon her, as do most strangers passing through here, and was touched by her pathetic speech. She said they were simply waiting to tear down the houses until she should go, and looking tearfully up into Mrs. Pitt’s face, added: “I’m eighty-six years old now, and I won’t last much longer, but I can’t go until the Lord calls me, can I?” In spite of this, she insisted that she was quite happy, for she had her “good feather bed,” and what more could she need?

The following morning, the party went by train to Nottingham, where they spent a short time in exploring. The present town is much like others, except in its legendary connection with Robin Hood. All visitors might not find it as fascinating as did Mrs. Pitt and the young people, who knew it as the abode of the disagreeable Sheriff whom Robin Hood heartily hated, and upon whom he continually played so many tricks, always evading punishment most successfully. They pictured the gay procession of soldiers and knights which accompanied King John when he entered that city, as the Sheriff’s guest; and to them the old market-square (the largest in all England) suggested the scene of Robin Hood’s masquerade as a butcher. There they halted and imagined him standing beside his booth, and calling out: “Now who’ll buy? who’ll buy? Four fixed prices have I. Three pennyworths of meat I sell to a fat friar or priest for sixpence, for I want not their custom; stout aldermen I charge threepence, for it doth not matter to me whether they buy or not; to buxom dames I sell three pennyworths of meat for one penny, for I like their custom well; but to the bonny lass that hath a liking for a good tight butcher, I charge nought but one fair kiss, for I like her custom the best of all.”

“It was here in Nottingham that Will Stutely had his narrow escape, wasn’t it?” questioned Betty. “He was captured by the Sheriff’s men at ‘Ye Blue Boar Inn,’ and they brought him to town and would have hanged him, if Robin Hood and his men hadn’t arrived just in time to save his life. Once Little John came to Nottingham Town and lived for some time in the Sheriff’s own castle, pretending to be the cook. My! what lots of things happened here!”

Not far away are splendid Chatsworth House, one of the palaces of the Duke of Devonshire, and lovely Haddon Hall, with its romantic story, and both of these famous places received a visit from Mrs. Pitt and her party.

Chatsworth, I am afraid, was not fully appreciated by our friends. It has a most beautiful situation in the valley of the Derwent, which rushes along through the extensive park; the house itself is magnificent filled with fine marble halls and rooms, and costly treasures of art; and in the gardens almost every sovereign of Europe seems to have planted some kind of a tree. One curious thing did wonderfully please the children’s fancy; that is, a marvelous weeping-willow tree, from the metal twigs and branches of which tiny streams of water come at a sign from the gardener. But somehow, on the whole, Chatsworth is cold and unfeeling, and failed to appeal to the party.

Not so was it with Haddon Hall! The most prosaic summer tourist could hardly fail to be moved by admiration of its delights. It is still a real home, and seems alive with memories of the fair Dorothy Vernon and her family. The old castle has scarcely changed at all since the sixteenth century, and one feels as though the great lords and ladies of Queen Elizabeth’s time had thoughtfully stepped out on the terrace, in order that we might wander through their noble old dwelling.

The custodian was having her afternoon-tea when the party arrived; she did not think of hurrying in the slightest, but leisurely finished this most important meal, and then received the visitors’ fees and allowed them to enter.

“I feel as though I had walked into a story!” remarked Betty quietly. “Is Dorothy at home?”

The various buildings of Haddon Hall are built around two square courts. The oldest bit is the ancient chapel, in part dating from Norman times, and in which the Vernon family worshiped for four hundred years. It still contains some old wooden pews, and traces of grotesque paintings may be seen upon its walls.

“Where are we going now?” whispered Barbara, keeping close to Betty, as the guide led them down a very dark passage, with an uneven stone floor. “Oh, it’s the kitchen!”

A light had now been struck, and the huge fireplaces of this kitchen of bygone days could be seen. Everything seemed complete, even to the woodbox which once held the tremendous logs.

“How in the world could they see to cook in such a dark place?” inquired the practical John.

“Oh, there were probably great torches fastened to the walls, and then there are some tiny windows. When your eyes grow accustomed to the dim light, you can see fairly well. I should think, though, that once in a while, the cook might have put a little too much salt in the pasty,” Mrs. Pitt replied laughingly.

An exceedingly curious feature of Haddon’s Banqueting-hall is an iron bracket with a ring, which is between the entrance doors. Naturally, Mrs. Pitt was called upon to explain this.

“Well,” said she, “it’s worth an explanation, for it has a strange purpose. Any guest who could not or would not drink as much as was required of him by the laws of hospitality, had his arm fastened up to that ring, and what he had refused to take was poured down his sleeve. Fancy! For my part, I should consider that a sad waste! Speaking of drinking, I wonder if you really know what it means when a man pledges or drinks a health. It’s a very ancient custom! Back in the days of Saxon England, it very often happened that a man would be stabbed while drinking, so it became the habit for him to turn to his neighbor and ask if he would ‘pledge’ him. If he agreed, his duty was to keep guard over his friend who wished to drink. A trace of this caution still exists at Queen’s College, Oxford. There the students who wait upon the ‘fellows,’ stand behind them and place their right thumbs upon the table.”

The round steps in the Long Gallery are said to have been cut from one great oak, grown on the estate. Up these they went, and followed the guide to the celebrated Ball-room, which is so often and so beautifully pictured. This long room is exquisite with its carved paneling, polished, inlaid floor, and lovely bay-windows overlooking the terrace.

“Here the ball was in progress at the time of Dorothy Vernon’s escape. It was the wedding night of Dorothy’s sister, wasn’t it? At any rate, while every one was engrossed in the dancing and merrymaking, Dorothy quietly slipped away, ran through this door here, along the terrace, and out to a certain tree in the park where her lover was awaiting her with the horses. That’s the story, and certainly it is a pretty one,” concluded Mrs. Pitt.

Just off the Ball-room is the State Bed-room, which claims to have had Queen Elizabeth as an occupant. The great bed, fourteen feet six inches high, is considered one of the finest in England, and is finished in green velvet and white satin.

They strolled out through Dorothy Vernon’s door and along the lovely terrace, over which the solemn yew-trees hang low. From here is seen a charming view of the garden, hemmed in upon one side by that part of the castle containing the Ball-room. The sun was just setting as they lingered upon the steps of the terrace, and it flooded everything with a golden light. The scene was so beautiful that all were silent as they gazed and gazed. Betty finally rose with a deep sigh, and said:

“Well, I suppose Dorothy knew what she was about, but I’m sure that I should never have run away from Haddon Hall!”