anted 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 gra