t's lovely." (Why Tom always
said "lubbish" for "rubbish" I'm sure I don't know, for he could say his
_r_'s well enough.)

"Well," I went on, "Marie was no braver than Racey, for when she heard
this terrible roar, she really thought the lion was coming after her,
and she turned and ran, as fast as ever her feet could go, right the
other way. She turned so suddenly and ran so fast, that when the gipsy
girl turned round to look for her, she was out of sight."

"Was the gipsy vexed?" asked Tom.

"Of course she was."

"But it was very kind of her to say she would show Marie her two little
dogs. Wasn't she a kind girl?"

"No, not really. Marie's grandmother told her afterwards that no doubt
the girl had wanted to steal her, and that her people would have made
Marie into a rope-dancing girl, because you see she was so pretty, and
had such beautiful hair. And they would have taken her far away to other
countries, and she was so little that after a while she would have
forgotten her friends very likely, and her father and mother would never
have seen her again. Just think what a difference it would have made if
the lion hadn't roared just that minute! Marie would very likely have
grown up a poor dancing girl, and nobody would ever have known who she
was. And she would never have been mother's godmother, so I wouldn't
ever have been telling you this story."

"How queer!" said Tom, consideringly. "All just because of the lion's
roar. But please go on, Audrey. Where did Marie run to?"

"Zes, where did she zun to?" said Racey.

"You're a parrot, Racey. I don't believe you've been listening."

"I has," said Racey, indignantly.

"Well, she ran and ran, till she got quite out of the fair, and in among
a lot of streets, where she didn't know her way a bit. She did know some
of the big streets close to her grandmother's house a little, but these
little narrow streets she didn't know one bit; and when she stopped,
after running till she was quite out of breath, she didn't know how to
go home at all. She was still frightened, she fancied perhaps the lion
was running after her, and she looked about to see where she could go to
be safe out of his way. Near to where she was she noticed a door open;
she went up and peeped in. It was a kitchen, and in this kitchen an old
woman was sitting with a pillow--not a pillow like what we have in bed,
you know--but a hard cushion, more like a footstool, that's what they
call a lace pillow--w