LITMIR.BIZ

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just going to pull it down, and I knocked down a brick or two with my sleeve, and not thinking what I was doing I built them up again; and then I got a bit giddy and the whole thing seemed to begin to grow—candlesticks and bricks and dominoes and everything, bigger and bigger and bigger, and I looked in. It was as big as a church by this time, and I saw that boy losing his way among the candlestick pillars, and I followed him and I listened. And I thought I could be as good a Deliverer as anybody else. And the motor veil that I was going to catch the 2.37 train in was a fine disguise.”

      “You tried to injure the children,” Caesar reminded her.

      “I don’t want to say anything to make you let me off,” said the Pretenderette, “but at the beginning I didn’t think any of it was real. I thought it was a dream. You can let your evil passions go in a dream and it don’t hurt any one.”

      “It hurts you,” Caesar said.

      “Oh! that’s no odds,” said the Pretenderette scornfully.

      “You sought to injure and confound the children at every turn,” said Caesar, “even when you found that things were real.”

      “I saw there was a chance of being Queen,” said the Pretenderette, “and I took it. Seems to me you’ve no occasion to talk if you’re Julius Caesar, the same as the bust in the library. You took what you could get right enough in your time, when all’s said and done.”

      “I hail,” said Caesar again, “your courage.”

      “You needn’t trouble,” she said, tossing her head; “my game’s up now, and I’ll speak my mind if I die for it. You don’t understand. You’ve never been a servant, to see other people get all the fat and you all the bones. What you think it’s like to know if you’d just been born in a gentleman’s mansion instead of in a model workman’s dwelling you’d have been brought up as a young lady and had the openwork silk stockings and the lace on your under-petticoats.”

      “You go too deep for me,” said Caesar, with the ghost of a smile. “I now pronounce your sentence. But life has pronounced on you a sentence worse than any I can give you. Nobody loves you.”

      “Oh, you old silly,” said the Pretenderette in a burst of angry tears, “don’t you see that’s just why everything’s happened?”

      “You are condemned,” said Caesar calmly, “to make yourself beloved. You will be taken to Briskford, where you will teach the Great Sloth to like his work and keep him awake for eight play-hours a day. In the intervals of your toil you must try to get fond of some one. The Halma people are kind and gentle. You will not find them hard to love. And when the Great Sloth loves his work and the Halma people are so fond of you that they feel they cannot bear to lose you, your penance will be over and you can go where you will.”

      “You know well enough,” said the Pretenderette, still tearful and furious, “that if that ever happened I shouldn’t want to go anywhere else.”

      “Yes,” said Caesar slowly, “I know.”

      Lucy would have liked to kiss the Pretenderette and say she was sorry, but you can’t do that when it is all other people’s fault and they aren’t sorry. And besides, before all these people, it would have looked like showing off. You know, I am sure, exactly how Lucy felt.

      The Pretenderette was led away. And now Caesar stood facing the children, his hands held out in farewell. The growing light of early morning transfigured his face, and to Philip it suddenly seemed to be most remarkably like the face of That Man, Mr. Peter Graham, whom Helen had married. He was just telling himself not to be a duffer when Lucy cried out in a loud cracked-sounding voice, “Daddy, oh, Daddy!” and sprang forward.

      And at that moment the sun rose above the city wall, and its rays gleamed redly on the helmet and the breastplate and the shield and the sword of Caesar. The light struck at the children’s eyes like a blow. Dazzled, they closed their eyes and when they opened them, blinking and confused, Caesar was gone and the marble book was closed—for ever.

      * * * *

      Three days later Mr. Noah arrived by elephant, and the meeting between him and the children is, as they say, better imagined than described. Especially as there is not much time left now for describing anything. Mr. Noah explained that the freeing of Polistopolis from the Pretenderette and the barbarians counted as the seventh deed and that Philip had now attained the rank of King, the deed of the Great Sloth having given him the title of Prince of Pine-apples. His expression of gratitude and admiration were of the warmest, and Philip felt that it was rather ungrateful of him to say, as he couldn’t help saying:

      “Now I’ve done all the deeds, mayn’t I go back to Helen?”

      “All in good time,” said Mr. Noah; “I will at once set about the arrangements for your coronation.”

      The coronation was an occasion of unexampled splendour. There was a banquet (of course) and fireworks, and all the guns fired salutes and the soldiers presented arms, and the ladies presented bouquets. And at the end Mr. Noah, with a few well-chosen words which brought tears to all eyes, placed the gold crown of Polistarchia upon the brow of Philip, where its diamonds and rubies shone dazzlingly.

      There was an extra crown for Lucy, made of silver and pearls and pale silvery moonstones.

      You have no idea how the Polistarchians shouted.

      “And now,” said Mr. Noah when it was all over, “I regret to inform you that we must part. Polistarchia is a Republic, and of course in a republic kings and queens are not permitted to exist. Partings are painful things. And you had better go at once.”

      He was plainly very much upset.

      “This is very sudden,” said Philip.

      And Lucy said, “I do think it’s silly. How shall we get home? All in a hurry, like this?”

      “How did you get here?”

      “By building a house and getting into it.”

      “Then build your own house. Oh, we have models of all the houses you were ever in. The pieces are all numbered. You only have to put them together.”

      He led them to a large room behind the hall of Public Amusements and took down from a shelf a stout box labelled “The Grange.” On another box Philip saw “Laburnum Cottage.”

      Mr. Noah, kneeling on his yellow mat, tumbled the contents of the box out on the floor, and Philip and Lucy set to work to build a house with the exquisitely finished little blocks and stones and beams and windows and chimneys.

      “I cannot bear to see you go,” said Mr. Noah. “Good-bye, good-bye. Remember me sometimes!”

      “We shall never forget you,” said the children, jumping up hugging him.

      “Good-bye!” said the parrot who had followed them in.

      “Good-bye, good-bye!” said everybody.

      “I wish the Lightning Loose was not lost,” Philip even at this parting moment remembered to say.

      “She isn’t,” said Mr. Noah. “She flew back to the island directly you left her. Sails are called wings, are they not? White wings that never grow weary, you know. Relieved of your weight, the faithful yacht flew home like any pigeon.”

      “Hooray!” said Philip. “I couldn’t bear to think of her rotting away in a cavern.”

      “I wish Max and Brenda had come to say good-bye,” said Lucy.

      “It is not needed,” said Mr. Noah mysteriously. And then everybody said good-bye again, and Mr. Noah rolled up his yellow mat, put it under his arm again, and went—for ever.

      The children built the Grange, and when the beautiful little model of that house was there before them, perfect, they stood still a moment, looking at it.

      “I wish we could be two people each,” said Lucy, “and one of each of us go home

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