s in Lombard Street, can undo the work of flames.
Kindly open the casement.'

It flew out.

That was why the papers said next day that the fire at the theatre had
done less damage than had been anticipated. As a matter of fact it had
done none, for the Phoenix spent the night in putting things straight.
How the management accounted for this, and how many of the theatre
officials still believe that they were mad on that night will never be
known.

Next day mother saw the burnt holes in the carpet.

'It caught where it was paraffiny,' said Anthea.

'I must get rid of that carpet at once,' said mother.

But what the children said in sad whispers to each other, as they
pondered over last night's events, was--

'We must get rid of that Phoenix.'

CHAPTER 12. THE END OF THE END

'Egg, toast, tea, milk, tea-cup and saucer, egg-spoon, knife,
butter--that's all, I think,' remarked Anthea, as she put the last
touches to mother's breakfast-tray, and went, very carefully up the
stairs, feeling for every step with her toes, and holding on to the tray
with all her fingers. She crept into mother's room and set the tray on a
chair. Then she pulled one of the blinds up very softly.

'Is your head better, mammy dear?' she asked, in the soft little voice
that she kept expressly for mother's headaches. 'I've brought your
brekkie, and I've put the little cloth with clover-leaves on it, the one
I made you.'

'That's very nice,' said mother sleepily.

Anthea knew exactly what to do for mothers with headaches who had
breakfast in bed. She fetched warm water and put just enough eau de
Cologne in it, and bathed mother's face and hands with the sweet-scented
water. Then mother was able to think about breakfast.

'But what's the matter with my girl?' she asked, when her eyes got used
to the light.

'Oh, I'm so sorry you're ill,' Anthea said. 'It's that horrible fire and
you being so frightened. Father said so. And we all feel as if it was
our faults. I can't explain, but--'

'It wasn't your fault a bit, you darling goosie,' mother said. 'How
could it be?'

'That's just what I can't tell you,' said Anthea. 'I haven't got
a futile brain like you and father, to think of ways of explaining
everything.'

Mother laughed.

'My futile brain--or did you mean fertile?--anyway, it feels very stiff
and sore this morning--but I shall be quite all right by and by. And
don't be a silly little pet girl. The fire wasn't your faults