"'You will have the memory of it,' replied Lal; 'you have possessed it once, and I think you will have quite enough imagination left all through your life without it; in fact, in the future, at times you will have rather too much imagination for the comfort of your other fellow-creatures.' "''Ave I got to go with 'im?' I asked; ''ave I got to say good-bye to you?' "'Certainly,' replied Lal in his most stately way; 'you are going to have a very happy life; you are a fairly respectable kid now, but you will become more and more respectable until one will hardly recognise you at all. You are going to have a ready-made Father and Mother which I have provided you with.' "'Ain't 'eard nothink about no Muvver yet,' I said; 'where's the Muvver come in?' "'Ah! you wait and see,' whispered the Lion mysteriously. "'Are you a-kiddin' me, Lal? if so, chuck it!' "'Oh! dreadful, dreadful expressions!' lamented Lal. 'Undoubtedly the next time I see you I believe your grammar will have improved, and your vocabulary have become more select. I hope so!' "It was at this point that something about Lal's eyes and attitude gave me the idea he was going to shut up for good, so to speak, and my feelings so overcame me, that without thinking I flung my arms round Lal's neck, that is to say, as far as they would go, and hugged him. "Lal opened his eyes again, and somehow I am sure that he was grinning, such a pleasant-looking, happy grin, but he spoke in his severest manner to me-- "You must really restrain these exhibitions of feeling in public; if a policeman chanced to observe you I think there would be the greatest difficulty in offering any adequate explanation. "'No, Lal,' I answered; 'all I ses to the coppers when they ses anyfink to me is "Rats"--always "Rats," and when I ses "Rats" they can fink what they jolly well likes.' "Lal sighed, and said, 'How like Dick Whittington!' and those were the very last words I ever heard him speak, although I little dreamed how I was to meet him again." * * * * * At this juncture Cookie appeared carrying a most wonderful silvern tea-tray, whereon a bright gilded urn sizzled happily, and a most inviting-looking pyramid of toasted muffins nestled in apparently friendly rivalry with the choicest cakes of Cookie's own baking; even a heaped-up crystal dish of whole strawberry jam could not conceal its blushes as the firelight played upon it. "Fairy tales," said Cookie, "I know; I've listened to them many a time myself." "No, Cookie, you are wrong," ventured Ridgwell in tones of rebuke; "it is not a fairy tale, every word of it is true." "That's what Cinderella always declared, Master Ridgwell," was Cookie's imperturbable reply, as she prepared to depart. The Writer chuckled quietly. "Of course it is true, isn't it?" asked Ridgwell and Christine in unison. "Of course," said the Writer, "every word of it, and anyway if it isn't it ought to be, like all romances."