They lingered longer over Dickens’ tomb, visioning the man who, by the far-reaching genius of his pen, could sway multitudes to laughter or tears at will.
“And it is to Dickens, largely, that we owe the marvelous improvement in social conditions among the lower classes,” the young man finished. “If it had not been for the boldness of his pen, we might still be going blithely along, blind to the miserable, unjust conditions that so prevailed among the poor of his time.”
And so the afternoon wore blissfully on, till Mr. Payton drew out his watch and four pairs of eager young eyes followed the action fearfully.
“It can’t be late, Dad,” from Lucile.
“After six,” said Mr. Payton, and they groaned in unison. “I’m as sorry as you young folks to tear myself away, but I’m afraid we’ve seen all we can for to-day.”
Slowly, and each step a protest against a necessity that demanded their return so soon, the girls made their reluctant way to the door of the cathedral.
Before they stepped into the waiting machine, our party turned for one more look at the Abbey.
“Oh, Dad, did you ever see anything like it?” breathed Lucile.
“There is nothing like it,” her father answered, slowly. “It is testimony in stone, a silent epitome of the glorious, stately, romance-filled history of England!”