edicated to my dear Dad,
to whom I owe everything--created Lord Mayor of the City of London in
the year----"

The old gentleman coughed and wiped his spectacles carefully, and even
suspiciously, for they appeared to be quite misty. "Oh, you bad boy,"
he burst out unexpectedly. "How dare you write books and become
famous, when you ought to have been sitting upon a stool behind a glass
partition as a junior partner in my counting-house? However, I believe
Lal was right, he usually is; he said we should disagree, and that the
youngest one would be in the right, and upon my word, my dear boy, I
never believed how very right he was until to-day. Bless me, I'm proud
of you."

"And I'm proud of you, Dad," was the Writer's answer.

"Goodness alive," declared the old man, as he turned and beamed upon
Ridgwell and Christine by turns, "do you children know, those were the
very words this rascal here used sixteen years ago, when he deposited a
lot of ridiculous prizes that nobody ever wanted to read in my lap when
I was asleep in front of the fire in my library. Bless me, history
does repeat itself."

"And prophecies come true," added the Writer.

"Tut, tut," said Sir Simon, "there was one prophecy our friend Lal made
that never came true. How about that absurd statement of his that you
would find Dick Whittington? That was all a lot of riddle-me-ree, as
you may say, thrown in like the cheap-jack's patter to mystify all of
us."

"You haven't opened the second parcel," quietly remarked the Writer;
"but when I read in some of the papers three years ago that you had
started collecting valuable old china, I always determined you should
have this piece."

"It all sounds very mysterious," replied the old gentleman, as he
gingerly prepared to take off the outside wrappings.

It was at this point that Ridgwell could contain himself no longer, for
he felt as if he were present upon a Christmas Day before the gifts
were opened.

"It's worth more than a hundred guineas," shouted Ridgwell.

"Then it is simply disgraceful extravagance," replied Sir Simon, "and I
shall certainly not accept it."

"I am sure you will," ventured Christine, "it is the thing that he
values most of anything he has got."

The last wrapping was undone, and the beautifully coloured and modelled
Dick Whittington was disclosed to view. There was not even a spot or
trace of ink anywhere upon his enamelled coat, the tree-stump, the
milestone or the t