on a floor?'

'I thought the floor was the proper home of a carpet,' Jane interrupted.

'Not of a MAGIC carpet,' said the Phoenix; 'why, if it had been allowed
to lie about on floors there wouldn't be much of it left now. No,
indeed! It has lived in chests of cedarwood, inlaid with pearl and
ivory, wrapped in priceless tissues of cloth of gold, embroidered with
gems of fabulous value. It has reposed in the sandal-wood caskets of
princesses, and in the rose-attar-scented treasure-houses of kings.
Never, never, had any one degraded it by walking on it--except in the
way of business, when wishes were required, and then they always took
their shoes off. And YOU--'

'Oh, DON'T!' said Jane, very near tears. 'You know you'd never have been
hatched at all if it hadn't been for mother wanting a carpet for us to
walk on.'

'You needn't have walked so much or so hard!' said the bird, 'but
come, dry that crystal tear, and I will relate to you the story of the
Princess Zulieka, the Prince of Asia, and the magic carpet.'

'Relate away,' said Anthea--'I mean, please do.'

'The Princess Zulieka, fairest of royal ladies,' began the bird, 'had in
her cradle been the subject of several enchantments. Her grandmother had
been in her day--'

But what in her day Zulieka's grandmother had been was destined never to
be revealed, for Cyril and Robert suddenly burst into the room, and on
each brow were the traces of deep emotion. On Cyril's pale brow stood
beads of agitation and perspiration, and on the scarlet brow of Robert
was a large black smear.

'What ails ye both?' asked the Phoenix, and it added tartly that
story-telling was quite impossible if people would come interrupting
like that.

'Oh, do shut up, for any sake!' said Cyril, sinking into a chair.

Robert smoothed the ruffled golden feathers, adding kindly--

'Squirrel doesn't mean to be a beast. It's only that the MOST AWFUL
thing has happened, and stories don't seem to matter so much. Don't be
cross. You won't be when you've heard what's happened.'

'Well, what HAS happened?' said the bird, still rather crossly; and
Anthea and Jane paused with long needles poised in air, and long
needlefuls of Scotch heather-mixture fingering wool drooping from them.

'The most awful thing you can possibly think of,' said Cyril. 'That nice
chap--our own burglar--the police have got him, on suspicion of stolen
cats. That's what his brother's missis told me.'

'Oh, begin at the begin