As though she guessed her thought, Godmother said presently, “We are going first to drive slowly over London Bridge.” In a few minutes they were upon it, and the car was threading its way among the crowded traffic, between great vans and lorries and taxicabs and the carts and wagons of all sorts that rolled along with a ceaseless roar. Betty looked up and down the river lined with huge buildings, its surface covered with shipping of every kind, and it struck her that London was, after all, a wonderful city. At the other end of the bridge, Godmother gave Williams, the chauffeur, an order to return, and to stop as close as possible to _The Monument_, that enormously tall pedestal near the Bridge, which, as Betty’s father had told her, was put up in the reign of Charles II. “Now I’m going to stay here comfortably in the car while you and Williams climb to the top of that column,” said Godmother, when the chauffeur had driven into a narrow side street. “Neither of you will mind the steps, but I certainly should.” Betty was only too delighted at the prospect, and with Williams as escort, she mounted gaily higher and higher, till at last the final step was reached, and she stepped out on to the caged-in top of the pillar. What a marvellous view it was, of miles and miles of streets and houses and domes and spires, with the river running like a silver ribbon in the midst! Williams also was impressed. “It’s a fine great city, miss!” he exclaimed. “Well?” demanded Godmother, when presently they returned to the car. “What do you think of London in point of size?” “It takes your breath away!” was Betty’s answer, as she settled herself comfortably for the homeward drive. “It’s been lovely,” she declared, when they sat down to lunch in the quaint parlour below the sitting-room. “I do believe I’m going to like London after all, Godmother. It somehow seems quite different seeing it with you. I have such a funny feeling about it. Just as though it was a sort of _magic_ place that might be awfully surprising.” Godmother gave her a quick look, but said nothing except “I’m glad.” After the meal, however, when they were once more in the white-panelled sitting-room which Betty already loved, she exclaimed all at once, “Now I’m going to tell you a secret.” You may imagine how Betty pricked up her ears. But without giving her time to speak, the old lady went on, sinking her voice to a most thrilling whisper: “_I have a magic way of seeing London_. It’s a special gift, and I’m not going to tell you how I discovered that I possess it. Very, very few people have the gift, but from certain signs I think _you_ possess it too. Would you like to try?” Betty’s face was a study in perplexity. “Yes—but how?” she stammered. “I don’t understand....” Instead of explaining, Godmother Strangeways got up, and opened the door of a cabinet that stood between two narrow square-paned windows, took something from a shelf and, returning, dropped it into her godchild’s hand.