ng on, and the rest of the money they spent on flowers to
put in the vases.

When they had arranged all the things on a table, with the candles stuck
up on a plate ready to light the moment mother's cab was heard, they
washed themselves thoroughly and put on tidier clothes.

Then Robert said, 'Good old Psammead,' and the others said so too.

'But, really, it's just as much good old Phoenix,' said Robert. 'Suppose
it hadn't thought of getting the wish!'

'Ah!' said the Phoenix, 'it is perhaps fortunate for you that I am such
a competent bird.'

'There's mother's cab,' cried Anthea, and the Phoenix hid and they
lighted the candles, and next moment mother was home again.

She liked her presents very much, and found their story of Uncle
Reginald and the sovereign easy and even pleasant to believe.

'Good old carpet,' were Cyril's last sleepy words.

'What there is of it,' said the Phoenix, from the cornice-pole.

CHAPTER 11. THE BEGINNING OF THE END

'Well, I MUST say,' mother said, looking at the wishing carpet as it
lay, all darned and mended and backed with shiny American cloth, on the
floor of the nursery--'I MUST say I've never in my life bought such a
bad bargain as that carpet.'

A soft 'Oh!' of contradiction sprang to the lips of Cyril, Robert, Jane,
and Anthea. Mother looked at them quickly, and said--

'Well, of course, I see you've mended it very nicely, and that was sweet
of you, dears.'

'The boys helped too,' said the dears, honourably.

'But, still--twenty-two and ninepence! It ought to have lasted for
years. It's simply dreadful now. Well, never mind, darlings, you've
done your best. I think we'll have coconut matting next time. A carpet
doesn't have an easy life of it in this room, does it?'

'It's not our fault, mother, is it, that our boots are the really
reliable kind?' Robert asked the question more in sorrow than in anger.

'No, dear, we can't help our boots,' said mother, cheerfully, 'but we
might change them when we come in, perhaps. It's just an idea of mine.
I wouldn't dream of scolding on the very first morning after I've come
home. Oh, my Lamb, how could you?'

This conversation was at breakfast, and the Lamb had been beautifully
good until every one was looking at the carpet, and then it was for him
but the work of a moment to turn a glass dish of syrupy blackberry jam
upside down on his young head. It was the work of a good many minutes
and several persons to get the j