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:

Thomas Parr of ye county of Salop, born A.D. 1483. He lived
in the reignes of ten princes, viz.--King Edward IV, King
Edward V, King Richard III, King Henry VII, King Henry VIII,
King Edward VI, Queen Mary, Queen Elizabeth, King James, and
King Charles; aged 152 years, and was buryed here, 1635.

"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