wn Lee Park.

The same moment the enchanter Doloro de Lara ran into them on the
pavement. Lucy screamed, and Harry hit out as hard as he could.

'Look out,' said he; 'who are you shoving into?'

'Tut-tut,' said the enchanter, putting his hat straight, 'you've bust up
your spell, my Lucy--child; no spells hold if you go kissing and saying
you're sorry. Just keep that in mind for the future, will you?'

He vanished in the white cloud of a passing steam-motor, and Harry and
Lucy were left looking at each other. And Harry was Harry and Lucy was
Lucy to the very marrow of their little back-bones. They shook hands
with earnest feeling.

Next day Lucy went to the High School and apologised in dust and ashes.

'I don't think I was my right self,' she said to the Headmistress, who
quite agreed with her, 'and I never will again!'

And she never has. Harry, on the other hand, thrashed Simpkins Minor
thoroughly and scientifically on the first opportunity; but he did not
thrash him extravagantly: he tempered pluck with mercy.

For this is the odd thing about the whole story. Ever since the day when
the tuppenny spell did its work Harry has been kinder than before and
Lucy braver. I can't think why, but so it is. He no longer bullies her,
and she is no longer afraid of him, and every time she does something
brave for him, or he does something kind for her, they grow more and
more alike, so that when they are grown up he may as well be called
Lucius and she Harriett, for all the difference there will be between
them.

And all the grown-ups look on and admire, and think that their incessant
jawing has produced this improvement. And no one suspects the truth
except the Headmistress of the High School, who has gone through the
complete course of Social Magic under a better professor than Mr. Doloro
de Lara; that is why she understands everything, and why she did not
expel Lucy, but only admonished her. Harry is cock of his school now,
and Lucy is in the sixth, and a model girl. I wish all Headmistresses
learned Magic at Girton.

SHOWING OFF; OR, THE LOOKING-GLASS BOY

His parents had thoughtlessly christened him Hildebrand, a name which,
as you see, is entirely unsuitable for school use. His friends called
him Brandy, and that was bad enough, though it had a sort of
pirate-smuggler sound, too. But the boys who did not like him called him
Hilda, and this was indeed hard to bear. In vain he told them that his
name was