“I dessay. It’s a big place. What, Miss Laura?” “_Twelve thousand furlongs_,” Laura was murmuring. She raised her voice. “What else, Nursie?” “Oh, there’s fountains and parrots and stalls with joolry—that brooch of mine come from there—” (it was a sham moonstone that Laura and Nurse agreed in thinking superb) “and gardens something lovely. Orange trees, my mother said, and trees with tulips on ’em.” She was thinking of magnolias, but Laura, lover of flowers, drew a deep breath, thrilling to a vision of the tallest tree on Beech Hill parti-coloured to its topmost twig with the tulips you buy in shops, long-stemmed, scarlet and purple, half a crown a dozen. “Oh, Nurse!! And was there a river, Nurse?” “Oh, yes—runs right through the grounds, with animals on the islands—what d’you call ’em—antiluviums—awful-looking beasts. Gave my mother the creeps, they did.” Laura nodded, but she was not impressed. She knew them. She and _Christian_ had known them in the _Valley of the Shadow_ and had taken no harm. Yet to assure herself she asked—— “What are they like? Is it difficult to get past them?” “Why, Miss Laura, they’re not real beasts. On’y stone. Just antiluviums. Sort of stone dragons, you know.” “Oh, I see.” Laura nodded again as one enlightened. She was acquainted with the _Dragon_, too, and the _Beast_; had met them at church.... They were bound for a thousand years.... Turning into stone was a very good way of binding them.... She gave a great sigh of content. It was simply wonderful how everything fitted in.... I beg your pardon, Collaborator? You think it curious that the conversation should have been such a satisfaction to her? But why? Her _Cœlestial City_ hardly needed a nursemaid’s recognition? Oh, I see. I see what you mean. But then you are arguing as a ‘grown-up.’ We grown-ups, of course, believe or disbelieve—black or white—one thing or the other—and there’s an end of it. But this is a child. A child can reconcile—look back, Collaborator—implicit belief and frank scepticism in a way that, to us, is all but incomprehensible. A child will show you a fairy ring without dreaming that it can be anything but the track of elfin feet, yet will instantly and vigorously denounce as a story-teller the contemporary who claims to have seen the Little People at their dancing. Fantasy and Common Sense sit see-saw in those early years, and keep a wonderful balance; but when the lanky ‘teens add their weight it is generally Common Sense that comes to earth with a thud, while poor Fantasy is jerked sky high and lost for good among the stars: which is a pity.