late lunch in the field just
outside the picket-fence, grated upon Mrs. Pitt's nerves. Even more
than in a cathedral with solid walls and a roof, here in this
open-air, ruined temple, dating from unknown ages, one is filled with
deepest reverence. It almost seems possible to see the ancient Druids
who worshiped there, dressed in robes of purest white.

In spite of the blue sky, the bright sunshine of early afternoon, and
the nearness of very noisy, human tourists, Betty so felt the strange
atmosphere which envelopes these huge sentinels of the past, that she
suddenly exclaimed:

"Oh, please, Mrs. Pitt, let's go back to Salisbury! I can't bear this
any longer."

[Illustration: "THERE STILL REMAINS THE QUESTION OF HOW THESE
TREMENDOUS STONES WERE BROUGHT HERE." _Page 236._]

So they drove slowly away over the fields, and as Mrs. Pitt turned for
a last glance behind, she saw the stones looming up in lonely majesty,
and thought to herself, "They have a secret which no one will ever
know."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CLOVELLY

A big, high, lumbering coach with four horses was slowly carrying Mrs.
Pitt and her young charges toward Clovelly,--that most famous of all
English fishing-villages. Betty, having discovered a photograph of it
some weeks before, had not ceased talking to the others of her great
desire to see the place; and finally Mrs. Pitt postponed her plans for
visiting other and more instructive towns, packed up the young people,
and started for lovely Devonshire. "Well," the kind lady had thought
to herself, "perhaps it will be just as well for them to have a short
holiday, and go to a pretty spot where they can simply amuse
themselves, and not have to learn too much history. Bless their little
hearts! They surely deserve it, for their brains have been kept quite
busy all the spring,--and I believe I shall enjoy Clovelly once again,
myself!"

Now that they were actually there, the realization was proving even
more delightful than the anticipation. The weather was perfect, and to
drive along the cliffs and moors, with a fresh, cool breeze blowing up
from the blue water below, was wonderfully exhilarating. Their route
led through a country where innumerable bright red poppies grow in the
fields of grain, and where there are genuine "Devonshire lanes," shut
in by tall hedges and wild flowers. Sometimes they clattered through
the narrow streets of a tiny village, while the coachman snapped his
whip, and the