She pointed to the entrance of a lane open on one side to the clear sparkling river, and on the other lined with the quaintest of what Betty called “fairy-book” houses. They were built of wood, with timber beams across the front, each story projecting farther than the one below it, so that the topmost windows hung far out above the street below. Boards painted with various signs, such as fiery dragons, golden fish, and green bushes, swung over the dark little shops on the ground floor. The street upon which they opened, was muddy and unpaved, but it was filled with a bustling crowd of gaily-dressed people. Recalling the Thames Street of this morning’s visit, the river hidden by enormous warehouses, motor vehicles blocking the roadway, Betty could scarcely believe this to be the same spot. “I want you to look at that house,” said Godmother, pointing to one of the gabled dwellings that had a wine shop below it. “Because there, Geoffrey Chaucer, the poet, was born and lived for some years. His father, as you may guess, by the sign over the door, was a wine merchant—or _vintner_ as he would say.” “Doesn’t Chaucer live there still?” “No, he’s an old man now, and he’s living in that little walled town of Westminster, close to the Abbey. The year we’re in—1388—is the last year of his life, and he has still to write his most famous poem.” “That’s the ‘Canterbury Tales,’ I know!” Just at the moment, and before Godmother could answer, there was a stir and commotion in Thames Street. Children began to run, shouting to one another, “The Pilgrims!” “The Pilgrims come!” and there was a general rush in one direction. Betty and her godmother followed the crowd. “Let us stand here in the middle of the bridge, outside the Chapel of St. Thomas,” suggested Godmother. “Then we shall see them come in at the north gate and go out at the one at the other end of the bridge, into Southwark.” They had just taken their places, when an elderly quiet-looking man dressed in a long brown garment, with a hood whose long peak hung to his shoulder, came up, stepping softly, and stood beside them. [Illustration] “Do you know who this is?” Godmother asked. “No other than Geoffrey Chaucer, the great poet!” Betty was torn between her desire to look at him, and her excitement at the approach of a train of people on horseback, who now came clattering through the gateway on to the bridge. “This is a company of pilgrims just setting out on their journey to Canterbury to visit the tomb of St. Thomas à Becket,” Godmother told her. “Do you notice how intently the poet is watching them?” Betty glanced at him, and saw him smiling quietly as the procession passed by. “He will go home presently and perhaps begin to write the ‘Canterbury Tales’ this very day, making an Introduction or _Prologue_ to it which will describe all those people on horseback just as you see them.”