er be a pirate with Uncle Dick, please, Auntie Lisbeth," he
said at last.

"Very well," nodded Lisbeth with an air of finality; "then of course I
must punish you." But her tone was strangely gentle, and as she turned
away I'll swear I saw the ghost of that dimple--yes, I'll swear it. So
we sat very lonely and dejected, the Imp and I, desperadoes though we
were, as we watched Selwyn's boat grow smaller and smaller until it was
lost round a bend in the river.

"'Spect I shall get sent to bed for this," said the Imp after a long
pause.

"I think it more than probable, my Imp."

"But then, it was a very fine race--oh, beautiful!" he sighed; "an' I
couldn't desert my ship an' Timothy Bone, an' leave you here all by
your self--now could I, Uncle Dick?"

"Of course not, Imp."

"What are you thinking about, Uncle Dick?" he inquired as I stared,
chin in hand, at nothing in particular.

"I was wondering, Imp, where the River of Dreams was going to lead me,
after all."

"To the Land of Heart's Delight, of course," he answered promptly; "you
said so, you know, an' you never tell lies, Uncle Dick--never."

IV

MOON MAGIC

The Three Jolly Anglers is an inn of a distinctly jovial aspect, with
its toppling gables, its creaking sign, and its bright lattices, which,
like merry little twinkling eyes, look down upon the eternal river
to-day with the same half-waggish, half-kindly air as they have done
for generations.

Upon its battered sign, if you look closely enough, you may still see
the Three Anglers themselves, somewhat worn and dim with time and
stress of weather, yet preserving their jollity through it all with an
heroic fortitude--as they doubtless will do until they fade away
altogether.

It is an inn with raftered ceilings, and narrow, winding passageways;
an inn with long, low chambers full of unexpected nooks and corners,
with great four-post beds built for tired giants it would seem, and
wide, deep chimneys reminiscent of Gargantuan rounds of beef; an inn
whose very walls seem to exude comfort, as it were--the solid
comfortable comfort of a bygone age.

Of all the many rooms here to be found I love best that which is called
the Sanded Parlour. Never were wainscoted walls of a mellower tone,
never was pewter more gleaming, never were things more bright and
speckless, from the worn, quaint andirons on the hearth to the
brass-bound blunderbuss, with the two ancient fishing-rods above. At
one end of th