fancy to it. No, no; I
won'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 bazaar
by mistake, with some other things.'

'Did it really, now? How vexing!' said Mrs Biddle, kindly. 'Well, my
dears, I can very well give the extra ten shillings; so you take your
carpet and we'll say no more about it. Have a piece of cake before you
go! 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 to
give any little pleasure to you dear children.'

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

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

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

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

'Perhaps it IS real,' said Anthea, 'only it was covered up with
crossness 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 when
she laughs.'

The carpet has done many wonders in its day; but the case of Mrs
Biddle is, I think, the most wonderful. For from that day she was never
anything like so disagreeable as she was before, and she sent a lovely
silver tea-pot and a kind letter to Miss Peasmarsh when the pretty lady
married the nice curate; just after Easter it was, and they went to
Italy for their honeymoon.

CHAPTER 5. THE TEMPLE

'I wish we could find the Phoenix,' said Jane. 'It's much better company
than the carpet.'

'Beastly ungrateful, little kids are,' said Cyril.

'No, I'm not; only the carpet never says anything, and it's so helpless.
It doesn't seem able to take care of itself. It gets sold, and taken
into the sea, and things like that. You wouldn't catch the Phoenix
getting sold.'

It was two days after the bazaar. Every one was a little cross--some
days are like that, usually Mondays, by the way. And this was a Monday.

'I shouldn't wonder if your precious Phoenix had gone off for good,'
said Cyril; 'and I don't know that I blame it. Look at the weather!'

'It's not worth looking at,' said Robert. And indeed it wasn't.

'The Phoenix has