“In the Great Fire, you mean? In the reign of Charles II? So I suppose _that’s_ why London looks so different in our time?” “It had to be almost rebuilt, so no wonder it’s different.” “What a pity!” sighed Betty. “I like it so much better as we see it now.” She scarcely knew which to look at first, the quaint timber houses surrounding the market-place, or the amusing crowd with which it was filled. In the open space before her were arranged wooden booths upon which bread, milk, fruit, poultry and meat were sold, just as in a modern country market. But the crowd round the stalls was very different in appearance from a modern crowd. The noise was terrific, for from every booth came cries from the sellers to buy, buy, buy! and everywhere there was laughter and screaming and singing. “Why are the houses decorated, I wonder?” asked Betty presently. For beautiful draperies of scarlet and blue and purple were hung over most of the balconies, and banners fluttered from the windows. “Don’t forget it’s May Day. The Lord Mayor is going to ride through the Chepe. He must be coming now. See how the people are hanging out of the windows, and crowding on to the balconies! Let us stand up here on the steps of the cross, and watch.” In a few moments a pretty May Day procession was seen crossing the market-place, led by a boy playing on a pipe, and followed by young girls and children crowned with flowers, and singing. Then came the clanking of horses’ feet, and soon a stately-looking man riding on a horse whose gay trapping hung low, came into sight. He wore a rich crimson cloak trimmed with fur, and a flat cap of crimson velvet with a plume, and by his side rode several other splendidly-dressed gentlemen. “Those are the Sheriffs, the men who help the Mayor to govern the city,” Godmother explained. “This Lord Mayor is very popular. Listen to the cheering of the people! And see, they are showering flowers upon him from the windows.” Just as he passed the cross, the Lord Mayor reined in his steed, lifted his cap and bowed to the applauding crowd, and at the moment, Betty caught sight of the heavy gold chain that lay about his shoulders, and across his tunic. “Godmother! There’s the very chain you took out of your cabinet,” she cried. “It is. And do you know the name of the Lord Mayor who wears it? No? Then I’ll tell you. Sir Richard Whittington.” Betty stared at her. “Not _Dick_ Whittington?” “Yes—that’s Dick Whittington grown up, and this is the third time he’s been Lord Mayor of London.” “Why, I’ve been to a pantomime about him!” exclaimed Betty. “I never knew he was a _real_ person.” “He’s a very real person, as you see.” “Then it’s true, about his cat, and Bow Bells ringing ‘_Turn again, Whittington_,’ and Alice, the beautiful girl he married, who was his master’s daughter?” asked Betty, all in one breath.