‘This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land, Dear for her reputation through the world ... ... England bound in by the triumphant sea.’ It is good to think that Shakespeare is living in London now, and has been for many years a Londoner.” “I do wish we could see him!” sighed Betty. It was growing dusk. Lights were already twinkling from the windows of the great houses on the Strand, but the last glow of sunset lingered on the river, where the swans floated between the stately barges that passed to and fro. “‘_Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song_,’” quoted Godmother, after a long silence. “What is that?” Betty asked. “It’s the line with which each verse of a beautiful poem ends. It was written not long ago by Edmund Spenser, who is one of the great poets of this marvellous time, and he composed it in honour of the marriage of two girls, the ladies Elizabeth and Katherine Somerset. We are passing their home,” replied Godmother, pointing to Somerset House. “The Thames _is_ running softly,” said Betty, as they drew near to a landing-stage on the Southwark side of London Bridge. “Isn’t it all quiet?” And indeed there was a strange hush everywhere. Even the boatman’s oars made no sound as he drew them out of the water, and when they landed and walked up a lane with a row of gabled houses on one side of it, the people they passed, flitted by like ghosts. It was nearly dark now, and only one dim lantern slung on a rope across the lane showed the way. Every now and then, however, a man or boy passed, carrying a lighted torch which flung a ruddy glare across the road. “We are passing St. Saviour’s Church,” said Betty, looking up at its tower dark against the stars. Just as she spoke, a man wrapped in a cloak hurried by, making no sound, and entered a house opposite the church. The light from a torch fell for a moment upon him, giving Betty a glimpse of him before he closed the door. [Illustration] “That’s William Shakespeare,” whispered Godmother. * * * * * Betty rubbed her eyes. “Oh! I’m so sorry to come back!” she exclaimed, glancing round the parlour. “To come _forward_, you mean,” Godmother corrected her, smiling. “We’ve leapt more than three hundred years onwards since a second ago.” “Can’t we go at once to Southwark while it’s all fresh in my mind?” urged Betty. “I should like to see how that part of London where we’ve just seen Shakespeare, looks now.” “Very well. We can’t have the car out again, but we’ll go on the top of an omnibus that runs over London Bridge, and you shall see all that remains to be seen, of the Southwark Shakespeare knew when he lived there.” Rather more than half an hour later as they approached the south end of the bridge, Godmother pointed to the right. “That’s where you saw the Globe and the Rose theatres, and farther down the river, you remember we saw in the distance Paris-Gardens.”