The Phoenix and the Carpet Page 4

  CHAPTER 4. TWO BAZAARS

  Mother was really a great dear. She was pretty and she was loving, andmost frightfully good when you were ill, and always kind, and almostalways just. That is, she was just when she understood things. Butof course she did not always understand things. No one understandseverything, and mothers are not angels, though a good many of them comepretty near it. The children knew that mother always WANTED to do whatwas best for them, even if she was not clever enough to know exactlywhat was the best. That was why all of them, but much more particularlyAnthea, felt rather uncomfortable at keeping the great secret from herof the wishing carpet and the Phoenix. And Anthea, whose inside mind wasmade so that she was able to be much more uncomfortable than the others,had decided that she MUST tell her mother the truth, however littlelikely it was that her mother would believe it.

  'Then I shall have done what's right,' said she to the Phoenix; 'and ifshe doesn't believe me it won't be my fault--will it?'

  'Not in the least,' said the golden bird. 'And she won't, so you'requite safe.'

  Anthea chose a time when she was doing her home-lessons--they wereAlgebra and Latin, German, English, and Euclid--and she asked her motherwhether she might come and do them in the drawing-room--'so as to bequiet,' she said to her mother; and to herself she said, 'And that's notthe real reason. I hope I shan't grow up a LIAR.'

  Mother said, 'Of course, dearie,' and Anthea started swimming througha sea of x's and y's and z's. Mother was sitting at the mahogany bureauwriting letters.

  'Mother dear,' said Anthea.

  'Yes, love-a-duck,' said mother.

  'About cook,' said Anthea. '_I_ know where she is.'

  'Do you, dear?' said mother. 'Well, I wouldn't take her back after theway she has behaved.'

  'It's not her fault,' said Anthea. 'May I tell you about it from thebeginning?'

  Mother laid down her pen, and her nice face had a resigned expression.As you know, a resigned expression always makes you want not to tellanybody anything.

  'It's like this,' said Anthea, in a hurry: 'that egg, you know, thatcame in the carpet; we put it in the fire and it hatched into thePhoenix, and the carpet was a wishing carpet--and--'

  'A very nice game, darling,' said mother, taking up her pen. 'Now dobe quiet. I've got a lot of letters to write. I'm going to Bournemouthto-morrow with the Lamb--and there's that bazaar.'

  Anthea went back to x y z, and mother's pen scratched busily.

  'But, mother,' said Anthea, when mother put down the pen to lick anenvelope, 'the carpet takes us wherever we like--and--'

  'I wish it would take you where you could get a few nice Eastern thingsfor my bazaar,' said mother. 'I promised them, and I've no time to go toLiberty's now.'

  'It shall,' said Anthea, 'but, mother--'

  'Well, dear,' said mother, a little impatiently, for she had taken upher pen again.

  'The carpet took us to a place where you couldn't have whooping-cough,and the Lamb hasn't whooped since, and we took cook because she wasso tiresome, and then she would stay and be queen of the savages. Theythought her cap was a crown, and--'

  'Darling one,' said mother, 'you know I love to hear the things you makeup--but I am most awfully busy.'

  'But it's true,' said Anthea, desperately.

  'You shouldn't say that, my sweet,' said mother, gently. And then Antheaknew it was hopeless.

  'Are you going away for long?' asked Anthea.

  'I've got a cold,' said mother, 'and daddy's anxious about it, and theLamb's cough.'

  'He hasn't coughed since Saturday,' the Lamb's eldest sisterinterrupted.

  'I wish I could think so,' mother replied. 'And daddy's got to go toScotland. I do hope you'll be good children.'

  'We will, we will,' said Anthea, fervently. 'When's the bazaar?'

  'On Saturday,' said mother, 'at the schools. Oh, don't talk any more,there's a treasure! My head's going round, and I've forgotten how tospell whooping-cough.'

  Mother and the Lamb went away, and father went away, and there was a newcook who looked so like a frightened rabbit that no one had the heart todo anything to frighten her any more than seemed natural to her.

  The Phoenix begged to be excused. It said it wanted a week's rest, andasked that it might not be disturbed. And it hid its golden gleamingself, and nobody could find it.

  So that when Wednesday afternoon brought an unexpected holiday, andevery one decided to go somewhere on the carpet, the journey had tobe undertaken without the Phoenix. They were debarred from any carpetexcursions in the evening by a sudden promise to mother, exacted in theagitation of parting, that they would not be out after six at night,except on Saturday, when they were to go to the bazaar, and were pledgedto put on their best clothes, to wash themselves to the uttermost, andto clean their nails--not with scissors, which are scratchy and bad,but with flat-sharpened ends of wooden matches, which do no harm to anyone's nails.

  'Let's go and see the Lamb,' said Jane.

  But every one was agreed that if they appeared suddenly in Bournemouthit would frighten mother out of her wits, if not into a fit. So theysat on the carpet, and thought and thought and thought till they almostbegan to squint.

  'Look here,' said Cyril, 'I know. Please carpet, take us somewhere wherewe can see the Lamb and mother and no one can see us.'

  'Except the Lamb,' said Jane, quickly.

  And the next moment they found themselves recovering from theupside-down movement--and there they were sitting on the carpet, andthe carpet was laid out over another thick soft carpet of brownpine-needles. There were green pine-trees overhead, and a swift clearlittle stream was running as fast as ever it could between steepbanks--and there, sitting on the pine-needle carpet, was mother, withouther hat; and the sun was shining brightly, although it was November--andthere was the Lamb, as jolly as jolly and not whooping at all.

  'The carpet's deceived us,' said Robert, gloomily; 'mother will see usdirectly she turns her head.'

  But the faithful carpet had not deceived them.

  Mother turned her dear head and looked straight at them, and DID NOT SEETHEM!

  'We're invisible,' Cyril whispered: 'what awful larks!'

  But to the girls it was not larks at all. It was horrible to have motherlooking straight at them, and her face keeping the same, just as thoughthey weren't there.

  'I don't like it,' said Jane. 'Mother never looked at us like thatbefore. Just as if she didn't love us--as if we were somebody else'schildren, and not very nice ones either--as if she didn't care whethershe saw us or not.'

  'It is horrid,' said Anthea, almost in tears.

  But at this moment the Lamb saw them, and plunged towards the carpet,shrieking, 'Panty, own Panty--an' Pussy, an' Squiggle--an' Bobs, oh,oh!'

  Anthea caught him and kissed him, so did Jane; they could not helpit--he looked such a darling, with his blue three-cornered hat all onone side, and his precious face all dirty--quite in the old familiarway.

  'I love you, Panty; I love you--and you, and you, and you,' cried theLamb.

  It was a delicious moment. Even the boys thumped their baby brotherjoyously on the back.

  Then Anthea glanced at mother--and mother's face was a pale sea-greencolour, and she was staring at the Lamb as if she thought he had gonemad. And, indeed, that was exactly what she did think.

  'My Lamb, my precious! Come to mother,' she cried, and jumped up and ranto the baby.

  She was so quick that the invisible children had to leap back, or shewould have felt them; and to feel what you can't see is the worst sortof ghost-feeling. Mother picked up the Lamb and hurried away from thepinewood.

  'Let's go home,' said Jane, after a miserable silence. 'It feels justexactly as if mother didn't love us.'

  But they couldn't bear to go home till they had seen mother meet anotherlady, and knew that she was safe. You cannot leave your mother to gogreen in the face in a distant pinewood, far from all human aid, andthen go home on your wishing carpet as though nothing had happened.r />
  When mother seemed safe the children returned to the carpet, and said'Home'--and home they went.

  'I don't care about being invisible myself,' said Cyril, 'at least, notwith my own family. It would be different if you were a prince, or abandit, or a burglar.'

  And now the thoughts of all four dwelt fondly on the dear greenish faceof mother.

  'I wish she hadn't gone away,' said Jane; 'the house is simply beastlywithout her.'

  'I think we ought to do what she said,' Anthea put in. 'I saw somethingin a book the other day about the wishes of the departed being sacred.'

  'That means when they've departed farther off,' said Cyril. 'India'scoral or Greenland's icy, don't you know; not Bournemouth. Besides, wedon't know what her wishes are.'

  'She SAID'--Anthea was very much inclined to cry--'she said, "Get Indianthings for my bazaar;" but I know she thought we couldn't, and it wasonly play.'

  'Let's get them all the same,' said Robert. 'We'll go the first thing onSaturday morning.'

  And on Saturday morning, the first thing, they went.

  There was no finding the Phoenix, so they sat on the beautiful wishingcarpet, and said--

  'We want Indian things for mother's bazaar. Will you please take uswhere people will give us heaps of Indian things?'

  The docile carpet swirled their senses away, and restored them on theoutskirts of a gleaming white Indian town. They knew it was Indian atonce, by the shape of the domes and roofs; and besides, a man went by onan elephant, and two English soldiers went along the road, talking likein Mr Kipling's books--so after that no one could have any doubt as towhere they were. They rolled up the carpet and Robert carried it, andthey walked bodily into the town.

  It was very warm, and once more they had to take off theirLondon-in-November coats, and carry them on their arms.

  The streets were narrow and strange, and the clothes of the people inthe streets were stranger and the talk of the people was strangest ofall.

  'I can't understand a word,' said Cyril. 'How on earth are we to ask forthings for our bazaar?'

  'And they're poor people, too,' said Jane; 'I'm sure they are. What wewant is a rajah or something.'

  Robert was beginning to unroll the carpet, but the others stopped him,imploring him not to waste a wish.

  'We asked the carpet to take us where we could get Indian things forbazaars,' said Anthea, 'and it will.'

  Her faith was justified.

  Just as she finished speaking a very brown gentleman in a turban cameup to them and bowed deeply. He spoke, and they thrilled to the sound ofEnglish words.

  'My ranee, she think you very nice childs. She asks do you loseyourselves, and do you desire to sell carpet? She see you from herpalkee. You come see her--yes?'

  They followed the stranger, who seemed to have a great many more teethin his smile than are usual, and he led them through crooked streetsto the ranee's palace. I am not going to describe the ranee's palace,because I really have never seen the palace of a ranee, and Mr Kiplinghas. So you can read about it in his books. But I know exactly whathappened there.

  The old ranee sat on a low-cushioned seat, and there were a lot of otherladies with her--all in trousers and veils, and sparkling with tinseland gold and jewels. And the brown, turbaned gentleman stood behind asort of carved screen, and interpreted what the children said and whatthe queen said. And when the queen asked to buy the carpet, the childrensaid 'No.'

  'Why?' asked the ranee.

  And Jane briefly said why, and the interpreter interpreted. The queenspoke, and then the interpreter said--

  'My mistress says it is a good story, and you tell it all throughwithout thought of time.'

  And they had to. It made a long story, especially as it had all to betold twice--once by Cyril and once by the interpreter. Cyril ratherenjoyed himself. He warmed to his work, and told the tale of the Phoenixand the Carpet, and the Lone Tower, and the Queen-Cook, in language thatgrew insensibly more and more Arabian Nightsy, and the ranee and herladies listened to the interpreter, and rolled about on their fatcushions with laughter.

  When the story was ended she spoke, and the interpreter explained thatshe had said, 'Little one, thou art a heaven-born teller of tales,' andshe threw him a string of turquoises from round her neck.

  'OH, how lovely!' cried Jane and Anthea.

  Cyril bowed several times, and then cleared his throat and said--

  'Thank her very, very much; but I would much rather she gave me some ofthe cheap things in the bazaar. Tell her I want them to sell again, andgive the money to buy clothes for poor people who haven't any.'

  'Tell him he has my leave to sell my gift and clothe the naked with itsprice,' said the queen, when this was translated.

  But Cyril said very firmly, 'No, thank you. The things have got to besold to-day at our bazaar, and no one would buy a turquoise necklace atan English bazaar. They'd think it was sham, or else they'd want to knowwhere we got it.'

  So then the queen sent out for little pretty things, and her servantspiled the carpet with them.

  'I must needs lend you an elephant to carry them away,' she said,laughing.

  But Anthea said, 'If the queen will lend us a comb and let us wash ourhands and faces, she shall see a magic thing. We and the carpet and allthese brass trays and pots and carved things and stuffs and things willjust vanish away like smoke.'

  The queen clapped her hands at this idea, and lent the children asandal-wood comb inlaid with ivory lotus-flowers. And they washed theirfaces and hands in silver basins. Then Cyril made a very polite farewellspeech, and quite suddenly he ended with the words--

  'And I wish we were at the bazaar at our schools.'

  And of course they were. And the queen and her ladies were left withtheir mouths open, gazing at the bare space on the inlaid marble floorwhere the carpet and the children had been.

  'That is magic, if ever magic was!' said the queen, delighted with theincident; which, indeed, has given the ladies of that court something totalk about on wet days ever since.

  Cyril's stories had taken some time, so had the meal of strange sweetfoods that they had had while the little pretty things were beingbought, and the gas in the schoolroom was already lighted. Outside, thewinter dusk was stealing down among the Camden Town houses.

  'I'm glad we got washed in India,' said Cyril. 'We should have beenawfully late if we'd had to go home and scrub.'

  'Besides,' Robert said, 'it's much warmer washing in India. I shouldn'tmind it so much if we lived there.'

  The thoughtful carpet had dumped the children down in a dusky spacebehind the point where the corners of two stalls met. The floor waslittered with string and brown paper, and baskets and boxes were heapedalong the wall.

  The children crept out under a stall covered with all sorts oftable-covers and mats and things, embroidered beautifully by idleladies with no real work to do. They got out at the end, displacing asideboard-cloth adorned with a tasteful pattern of blue geraniums. Thegirls got out unobserved, so did Cyril; but Robert, as he cautiouslyemerged, was actually walked on by Mrs Biddle, who kept the stall. Herlarge, solid foot stood firmly on the small, solid hand of Robert andwho can blame Robert if he DID yell a little?

  A crowd instantly collected. Yells are very unusual at bazaars, andevery one was intensely interested. It was several seconds before thethree free children could make Mrs Biddle understand that what shewas walking on was not a schoolroom floor, or even, as she presentlysupposed, a dropped pin-cushion, but the living hand of a sufferingchild. When she became aware that she really had hurt him, she grew veryangry indeed. When people have hurt other people by accident, the onewho does the hurting is always much the angriest. I wonder why.

  'I'm very sorry, I'm sure,' said Mrs Biddle; but she spoke more in angerthan in sorrow. 'Come out! whatever do you mean by creeping about underthe stalls, like earwigs?'

  'We were looking at the things in the corner.'

  'Such nasty, prying ways,' said Mrs Biddle, 'will
never make yousuccessful in life. There's nothing there but packing and dust.'

  'Oh, isn't there!' said Jane. 'That's all you know.'

  'Little girl, don't be rude,' said Mrs Biddle, flushing violet.

  'She doesn't mean to be; but there ARE some nice things there, all thesame,' said Cyril; who suddenly felt how impossible it was to inform thelistening crowd that all the treasures piled on the carpet were mother'scontributions to the bazaar. No one would believe it; and if they did,and wrote to thank mother, she would think--well, goodness only knewwhat she would think. The other three children felt the same.

  'I should like to see them,' said a very nice lady, whose friendshad disappointed her, and who hoped that these might be belatedcontributions to her poorly furnished stall.

  She looked inquiringly at Robert, who said, 'With pleasure, don'tmention it,' and dived back under Mrs Biddle's stall.

  'I wonder you encourage such behaviour,' said Mrs Biddle. 'I alwaysspeak my mind, as you know, Miss Peasmarsh; and, I must say, I amsurprised.' She turned to the crowd. 'There is no entertainment here,'she said sternly. 'A very naughty little boy has accidentally hurthimself, but only slightly. Will you please disperse? It will onlyencourage him in naughtiness if he finds himself the centre ofattraction.'

  The crowd slowly dispersed. Anthea, speechless with fury, heard a nicecurate say, 'Poor little beggar!' and loved the curate at once and forever.

  Then Robert wriggled out from under the stall with some Benares brassand some inlaid sandalwood boxes.

  'Liberty!' cried Miss Peasmarsh. 'Then Charles has not forgotten, afterall.'

  'Excuse me,' said Mrs Biddle, with fierce politeness, 'these objects aredeposited behind MY stall. Some unknown donor who does good by stealth,and would blush if he could hear you claim the things. Of course theyare for me.'

  'My stall touches yours at the corner,' said poor Miss Peasmarsh,timidly, 'and my cousin did promise--'

  The children sidled away from the unequal contest and mingled withthe crowd. Their feelings were too deep for words--till at last Robertsaid--

  'That stiff-starched PIG!'

  'And after all our trouble! I'm hoarse with gassing to that trouseredlady in India.'

  'The pig-lady's very, very nasty,' said Jane.

  It was Anthea who said, in a hurried undertone, 'She isn't very nice,and Miss Peasmarsh is pretty and nice too. Who's got a pencil?'

  It was a long crawl, under three stalls, but Anthea did it. A largepiece of pale blue paper lay among the rubbish in the corner.

  She folded it to a square and wrote upon it, licking the pencil at everyword to make it mark quite blackly: 'All these Indian things are forpretty, nice Miss Peasmarsh's stall.' She thought of adding, 'There isnothing for Mrs Biddle;' but she saw that this might lead to suspicion,so she wrote hastily: 'From an unknown donna,' and crept back among theboards and trestles to join the others.

  So that when Mrs Biddle appealed to the bazaar committee, and the cornerof the stall was lifted and shifted, so that stout clergymen and heavyladies could get to the corner without creeping under stalls, the bluepaper was discovered, and all the splendid, shining Indian things weregiven over to Miss Peasmarsh, and she sold them all, and got thirty-fivepounds for them.

  'I don't understand about that blue paper,' said Mrs Biddle. 'It looksto me like the work of a lunatic. And saying you were nice and pretty!It's not the work of a sane person.'

  Anthea and Jane begged Miss Peasmarsh to let them help her to sell thethings, because it was their brother who had announced the good newsthat the things had come. Miss Peasmarsh was very willing, for now herstall, that had been SO neglected, was surrounded by people who wantedto buy, and she was glad to be helped. The children noted that MrsBiddle had not more to do in the way of selling than she could managequite well. I hope they were not glad--for you should forgive yourenemies, even if they walk on your hands and then say it is all yournaughty fault. But I am afraid they were not so sorry as they ought tohave been.

  It took some time to arrange the things on the stall. The carpet wasspread over it, and the dark colours showed up the brass and silver andivory things. It was a happy and busy afternoon, and when Miss Peasmarshand the girls had sold every single one of the little pretty things fromthe Indian bazaar, far, far away, Anthea and Jane went off with theboys to fish in the fishpond, and dive into the bran-pie, and hear thecardboard band, and the phonograph, and the chorus of singing birds thatwas done behind a screen with glass tubes and glasses of water.

  They had a beautiful tea, suddenly presented to them by the nice curate,and Miss Peasmarsh joined them before they had had more than three cakeseach. It was a merry party, and the curate was extremely pleasant toevery one, 'even to Miss Peasmarsh,' as Jane said afterwards.

  'We ought to get back to the stall,' said Anthea, when no one couldpossibly eat any more, and the curate was talking in a low voice to MissPeas marsh about 'after Easter'.

  'There's nothing to go back for,' said Miss Peasmarsh gaily; 'thanks toyou dear children we've sold everything.'

  'There--there's the carpet,' said Cyril.

  'Oh,' said Miss Peasmarsh, radiantly, 'don't bother about the carpet.I've sold even that. Mrs Biddle gave me ten shillings for it. She saidit would do for her servant's bedroom.'

  'Why,' said Jane, 'her servants don't HAVE carpets. We had cook fromher, and she told us so.'

  'No scandal about Queen Elizabeth, if YOU please,' said the curate,cheerfully; and Miss Peasmarsh laughed, and looked at him as though shehad never dreamed that any one COULD be so amusing. But the others werestruck dumb. How could they say, 'The carpet is ours!' For who bringscarpets to bazaars?

  The children were now thoroughly wretched. But I am glad to say thattheir wretchedness did not make them forget their manners, as it doessometimes, even with grown-up people, who ought to know ever so muchbetter.

  They said, 'Thank you very much for the jolly tea,' and 'Thanks forbeing so jolly,' and 'Thanks awfully for giving us such a jolly time;'for the curate had stood fish-ponds, and bran-pies, and phonographs, andthe chorus of singing birds, and had stood them like a man. The girlshugged Miss Peasmarsh, and as they went away they heard the curate say--

  'Jolly little kids, yes, but what about--you will let it be directlyafter Easter. Ah, do say you will--'

  And Jane ran back and said, before Anthea could drag her away, 'What areyou going to do after Easter?'

  Miss Peasmarsh smiled and looked very pretty indeed. And the curatesaid--

  'I hope I am going to take a trip to the Fortunate Islands.'

  'I wish we could take you on the wishing carpet,' said Jane.

  'Thank you,' said the curate, 'but I'm afraid I can't wait for that. Imust go to the Fortunate Islands before they make me a bishop. I shouldhave no time afterwards.'

  'I've always thought I should marry a bishop,' said Jane: 'his apronswould come in so useful. Wouldn't YOU like to marry a bishop, MissPeasmarsh?'

  It was then that they dragged her away.

  As it was Robert's hand that Mrs Biddle had walked on, it was decidedthat he had better not recall the incident to her mind, and so makeher angry again. Anthea and Jane had helped to sell things at the rivalstall, so they were not likely to be popular.

  A hasty council of four decided that Mrs Biddle would hate Cyril lessthan she would hate the others, so the others mingled with the crowd,and it was he who said to her--

  'Mrs Biddle, WE meant to have that carpet. Would you sell it to us? Wewould give you--'

  'Certainly not,' said Mrs Biddle. 'Go away, little boy.'

  There was that in her tone which showed Cyril, all too plainly, thehopelessness of persuasion. He found the others and said--

  'It's no use; she's like a lioness robbed of its puppies. We must watchwhere it goes--and--Anthea, I don't care what you say. It's our owncarpet. It wouldn't be burglary. It would be a sort of forlorn hoperescue party--heroic and daring and dashing, and not wrong at all.'

  The children
still wandered among the gay crowd--but there was nopleasure there for them any more. The chorus of singing birds soundedjust like glass tubes being blown through water, and the phonographsimply made a horrid noise, so that you could hardly hear yourselfspeak. And the people were buying things they couldn't possibly want,and it all seemed very stupid. And Mrs Biddle had bought the wishingcarpet for ten shillings. And the whole of life was sad and grey anddusty, and smelt of slight gas escapes, and hot people, and cake andcrumbs, and all the children were very tired indeed.

  They found a corner within sight of the carpet, and there they waitedmiserably, till it was far beyond their proper bedtime. And when it wasten the people who had bought things went away, but the people who hadbeen selling stayed to count up their money.

  'And to jaw about it,' said Robert. 'I'll never go to another bazaar aslong as ever I live. My hand is swollen as big as a pudding. I expectthe nails in her horrible boots were poisoned.'

  Just then some one who seemed to have a right to interfere said--

  'Everything is over now; you had better go home.'

  So they went. And then they waited on the pavement under the gas lamp,where ragged children had been standing all the evening to listen tothe band, and their feet slipped about in the greasy mud till Mrs Biddlecame out and was driven away in a cab with the many things she hadn'tsold, and the few things she had bought--among others the carpet. Theother stall-holders left their things at the school till Monday morning,but Mrs Biddle was afraid some one would steal some of them, so she tookthem in a cab.

  The children, now too desperate to care for mud or appearances, hungon behind the cab till it reached Mrs Biddle's house. When she and thecarpet had gone in and the door was shut Anthea said--

  'Don't let's burgle--I mean do daring and dashing rescue acts--tillwe've given her a chance. Let's ring and ask to see her.'

  The others hated to do this, but at last they agreed, on condition thatAnthea would not make any silly fuss about the burglary afterwards, ifit really had to come to that.

  So they knocked and rang, and a scared-looking parlourmaid opened thefront door. While they were asking for Mrs Biddle they saw her. She wasin the dining-room, and she had already pushed back the table and spreadout the carpet to see how it looked on the floor.

  'I knew she didn't want it for her servants' bedroom,' Jane muttered.

  Anthea walked straight past the uncomfortable parlourmaid, and theothers followed her. Mrs Biddle had her back to them, and was smoothingdown the carpet with the same boot that had trampled on the handof Robert. So that they were all in the room, and Cyril, with greatpresence of mind, had shut the room door before she saw them.

  'Who is it, Jane?' she asked in a sour voice; and then turning suddenly,she saw who it was. Once more her face grew violet--a deep, dark violet.'You wicked daring little things!' she cried, 'how dare you come here?At this time of night, too. Be off, or I'll send for the police.'

  'Don't be angry,' said Anthea, soothingly, 'we only wanted to ask youto let us have the carpet. We have quite twelve shillings between us,and--'

  'How DARE you?' cried Mrs Biddle, and her voice shook with angriness.

  'You do look horrid,' said Jane suddenly.

  Mrs Biddle actually stamped that booted foot of hers. 'You rude,barefaced child!' she said.

  Anthea almost shook Jane; but Jane pushed forward in spite of her.

  'It really IS our nursery carpet,' she said, 'you ask ANY ONE if itisn't.'

  'Let's wish ourselves home,' said Cyril in a whisper.

  'No go,' Robert whispered back, 'she'd be there too, and raving mad aslikely as not. Horrid thing, I hate her!'

  'I wish Mrs Biddle was in an angelic good temper,' cried Anthea,suddenly. 'It's worth trying,' she said to herself.

  Mrs Biddle's face grew from purple to violet, and from violet to mauve,and from mauve to pink. Then she smiled quite a jolly smile.

  'Why, so I am!' she said, 'what a funny idea! Why shouldn't I be in agood temper, my dears.'

  Once more the carpet had done its work, and not on Mrs Biddle alone. Thechildren felt suddenly good and happy.

  'You're a jolly good sort,' said Cyril. 'I see that now. I'm sorry wevexed you at the bazaar to-day.'

  'Not another word,' said the changed Mrs Biddle. 'Of course you shallhave the carpet, my dears, if you've taken such a fancy to it. No, no; Iwon't have more than the ten shillings I paid.'

  'It does seem hard to ask you for it after you bought it at the bazaar,'said Anthea; 'but it really IS our nursery carpet. It got to the bazaarby mistake, with some other things.'

  'Did it really, now? How vexing!' said Mrs Biddle, kindly. 'Well, mydears, I can very well give the extra ten shillings; so you take yourcarpet and we'll say no more about it. Have a piece of cake before yougo! I'm so sorry I stepped on your hand, my boy. Is it all right now?'

  'Yes, thank you,' said Robert. 'I say, you ARE good.'

  'Not at all,' said Mrs Biddle, heartily. 'I'm delighted to be able togive any little pleasure to you dear children.'

  And she helped them to roll up the carpet, and the boys carried it awaybetween them.

  'You ARE a dear,' said Anthea, and she and Mrs Biddle kissed each otherheartily.

  'WELL!' said Cyril as they went along the street.

  'Yes,' said Robert, 'and the odd part is that you feel just as if itwas REAL--her being so jolly, I mean--and not only the carpet making hernice.'

  'Perhaps it IS real,' said Anthea, 'only it was covered up withcrossness and tiredness and things, and the carpet took them away.'

  'I hope it'll keep them away,' said Jane; 'she isn't ugly at all whenshe laughs.'

  The carpet has done many wonders in its day; but the case of MrsBiddle is, I think, the most wonderful. For from that day she was neveranything like so disagreeable as she was before, and she sent a lovelysilver tea-pot and a kind letter to Miss Peasmarsh when the pretty ladymarried the nice curate; just after Easter it was, and they went toItaly for their honeymoon.