“Ah!” said the lady in the barrow, “Of course you’re heir to one of the—what is it...?” “‘Stately homes of England—how beautiful they stand,’” said Mavis. “Yes,” said the lady. “I knew by instinct that he was of noble birth.” _“‘I bid ye take care of the brat,’ said he, ‘For he comes of a noble race,’”_ * * * * * Francis hummed. He was feeling a little cross and sore. He and Mavis had had all the anxious trouble of the adventure, and now the Spangled Boy was the only one the Mermaid was nice to. It was certainly hard. “But your stately home would not do for me at all,” she went on. “My idea of home is all seaweed of coral and pearl—so cosy and delightful and wet. Now—can you push the chariot to the water’s edge, or will you carry me?” “Not much we won’t,” the Spangled Boy answered firmly. “We’ll push you as far as we can, and then you’ll have to wriggle.” “I will do whatever you suggest,” she said amiably; “but what is this wriggle of which you speak?” “Like a worm,” said Francis. “Or an eel,” said Mavis. “Nasty low things,” said the Mermaid; and the children never knew whether she meant the worm and the eel, or the girl and the boy. “Now then. All together,” said the Spangled Child. And the barrow bumped down to the very edge of the rocks. And at the very edge its wheel caught in a chink and the barrow went sideways. Nobody could help it, but the Mermaid was tumbled out of her chariot on to the seaweed. The seaweed was full and cushiony and soft, and she was not hurt at all—but she was very angry. “You have been to school,” she said, “as my noble preserver reminds you. You might have learned how not to upset chariots.” “It’s we who are your preservers,” Francis couldn’t help saying. “Of course you are,” she said coolly, “plain preservers. Not noble ones. But I forgive you. You can’t help being common and clumsy. I suppose it’s your nature—just as it’s his to be....” “Good-bye,” said Francis, firmly. “Not at all,” said the lady. “You must come with me in case there are any places where I can’t exercise the elegant and vermiform accomplishment you spoke about. Now, one on each side, and one behind, and don’t walk on my tail. You can’t think how annoying it is to have your tail walked on.” [Illustration: _And disappeared entirely._] “Oh, can’t I,” said Mavis. “I’ll tell you something. My mother has a tail too.” “I _say_!” said Francis. But the Spangled Child understood. “She don’t wear it every day, though,” he said; and Mavis is almost sure that he winked. Only it is so difficult to be sure about winks in the starlight. “Your mother must be better born than I supposed,” said the Mermaid. “Are you _quite_ sure about the tail?” “I’ve trodden on it often,” said Mavis—and then Francis saw. Wriggling and sliding and pushing herself along by her hands, and helped now and then by the hands of the others, the Mermaid was at last got to the edge of the water.