“Yes,” answered Godmother in an understanding voice. “But the life of London still goes on, even though it’s a different life, and Roman London is forgotten.” They were standing by the window of the room, and beyond the garden upon which it looked, in the road outside St. James’s Park, people were walking, children running, and taxicabs and motor-cars swept past in a constant stream. “When the Romans lived here, all this”—she waved her hand towards the Park and the busy road—“was a dreary swamp, impossible for human existence. Now you see it the home and pleasure-ground of thousands of people whose turn it is to enjoy the sunshine, the blue sky, and all the pleasant things the Romans and the British who lived side by side in this London of ours, enjoyed long ago.” “This _may_ be a Museum, but it’s an awfully nice one,” declared Betty, as she and Godmother walked back towards the corridor. “It wouldn’t be dull, even _without_ the magic. But that makes it a hundred times more fascinating, of course. Can’t we look at some other things?” “The only other thing I’m going to show you to-day, is a certain picture,” returned Godmother. “But before we look at it, I must explain a little, or you won’t understand it.” They found a seat in the corridor, and she began at once. “You will remember that when we saw London yesterday, on our magic journey into the Past, I told you we were very near the end of the Romans’ stay in Britain. Soon afterwards they had to go back to fight against enemies in their own land, and you know what happened when the British were left unprotected?” “Enemies came to fight against _them_.” “And who were those enemies?” “The Jutes and the Angles and the Saxons,” replied Betty, who was quite good at history. “Yes, those names are all right; but the chief thing to remember about them is that they were _our_ forefathers, and that before long they were known as _the English people_. This island, once called Britain, became _England_, and the original inhabitants—those British among whom the Romans lived—though they were not entirely driven out of the country, were hunted as far west as they could go, and received a different name.” “I remember!” cried Betty, nodding. “They are called the Welsh now, and they live in Wales.” “Well, for the future, in thinking about London, let us leave them there, remembering that though nowadays we scarcely know Welsh from our own countrymen, they are _not_ our countrymen. They are of a different race, the descendants of the British, and though nearly all of them now talk in English, their _native_ language is quite different from ours. It is really the old _British_ language. Now, for goodness’ sake, get that clearly into your mind, and never let me hear you muddle up the British with the English, in the annoying way of most children!” concluded Godmother in her sharpest voice.