ng Elinor's left foot a pillow for
his head.

"Well, it's hot enough," from Oliver, dozingly. "Ah--oo--it's _hot_!"

"I know, but just think," Peter chuckled. "Clothes," he explained
cryptically, "Mrs. Willamette in a Cleopatra nightie--what sport! And
besides, I should make a magnificent Egyptian. Magnificent." He yawned
immensely. "In the first place, of course, I should paint myself a
brilliant orange--"

The Egyptians. An odd wonder rose in Ted--a wonder as to whether one
of those stripped and hook-nosed slaves of the bondage before Moses had
ever happened to stand up for a moment to wipe the sweat out of his eyes
before he bent again to his task of making bricks without straw and seen
a princess of the Egyptians carried along past the quarries.

"Tell us a story, El," from Oliver in the voice of one who is
sleep-walking. "A nice quiet story--the Three Bears or Giant the Jack
Killer--oh heaven, I _must_ be asleep--but you know, anything like
that--"

"You really want a story?" Elinor's voice was reticently mocking. "A
story for good little boys?"

"Oh, _yes!_" from Peter, his clasped hands stretched toward her in
an attitude of absurd supplication. "All in nice little words of one
syllable or we won't understand."

"Well, once there were three little girls named Elsie, Lacie and Tillie
and they lived in the bottom of a well."

[ILLUSTRATION: "WELL, ONCE THERE WERE THREE LITTLE GIRLS"] "What _kind_
of a well?" Oliver had caught the cue at once.

"A treacle well--"

* * * * *

She went on with the Dormouse's Tale, but Ted, for once, hardly heard
her--his mind was too busy with its odd, Egyptological dream.

The princess who looked like Elinor. Her slaves would come first--a fat
bawling eunuch, all one black glisten like new patent-leather, striking
with a silver rod to clear dogs and crocodiles and Israelites out of the
way. Then the litter--and a flash between curtains blown aside for an
instant--and Hook Nose gazing and gazing--all the fine fighting curses
of David on the infidel, that he had muttered sourly under breath all
day, blowing away from him like sand from the face of a sphinx.

Pomp sounding in brass and cries all around the litter like the boasting
color of a trumpet--but in the litter not pomp but fineness passing.
Fineness of youth untouched, from the clear contrast of white skin and
crow-black hair to the hands that had the little stirrings of moon-mo