It was a long time now since Diamond had seen North Wind, or even thought much about her. And as his father drove along, he was thinking not about her, but about the crossing-sweeper, and was wondering what made him feel as if he knew her quite well, when he could not remember anything of her. But a picture arose in his mind of a little girl running before the wind and dragging her broom after her; and from that, by degrees, he recalled the whole adventure of the night when he got down from North Wind's back in a London street. But he could not quite satisfy himself whether the whole affair was not a dream which he had dreamed when he was a very little boy. Only he had been to the back of the north wind since--there could be no doubt of that; for when he woke every morning, he always knew that he had been there again. And as he thought and thought, he recalled another thing that had happened that morning, which, although it seemed a mere accident, might have something to do with what had happened since. His father had intended going on the stand at King's Cross that morning, and had turned into Gray's Inn Lane to drive there, when they found the way blocked up, and upon inquiry were informed that a stack of chimneys had been blown down in the night, and had fallen across the road. They were just clearing the rubbish away. Diamond's father turned, and made for Charing Cross. That night the father and mother had a great deal to talk about. “Poor things!” said the mother. “it's worse for them than it is for us. You see they've been used to such grand things, and for them to come down to a little poky house like that--it breaks my heart to think of it.” “I don't know,” said Diamond thoughtfully, “whether Mrs. Coleman had bells on her toes.” “What do you mean, child?” said his mother. “She had rings on her fingers, anyhow,” returned Diamond. “Of course she had, as any lady would. What has that to do with it?” “When we were down at Sandwich,” said Diamond, “you said you would have to part with your mother's ring, now we were poor.” “Bless the child; he forgets nothing,” said his mother. “Really, Diamond, a body would need to mind what they say to you.” “Why?” said Diamond. “I only think about it.” “That's just why,” said the mother. “Why is that why?” persisted Diamond, for he had not yet learned that grown-up people are not often so much grown up that they never talk like children--and spoilt ones too. “Mrs. Coleman is none so poor as all that yet. No, thank Heaven! she's not come to that.” “Is it a great disgrace to be poor?” asked Diamond, because of the tone in which his mother had spoken. But his mother, whether conscience-stricken I do not know hurried him away to bed, where after various attempts to understand her, resumed and resumed again in spite of invading sleep, he was conquered at last, and gave in, murmuring over and over to himself, “Why is why?” but getting no answer to the question.