Betty could only point to a passing train. “It’s only the funny little freight cars!” she finally explained, rather ashamed that she had let her feelings escape in that way. “They look so silly to us! They seem about a third the size of the ones at home. Really, these remind me of a picture in my history-book, of the first train ever run in America!”
Mrs. Pitt smiled. “Yes, I can imagine just how strange they must seem to you, for I remember very well how I felt the first time I ever rode in one of your trains. To me, one of the most interesting things about visiting a foreign country, is to see the different modes of travel.”
“Oh, please understand that I think so, too!” urged Betty. “It was only that I couldn’t help laughing just at first, you see. I wouldn’t have your trains just like ours for anything, and I’m sure that John wouldn’t either.”
“What’s the use of having so many doors?”—Page [39].
“Now,” said Mrs. Pitt, “there is a little confession which I feel that I ought to make. It’s about where we are going to-day. Probably most people would blame me for not taking you to Windsor or Hampton Court, on your first trip out of town. Both those places are charming, but I wanted 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.