without thought of time.'

And they had to. It made a long story, especially as it had all to
be told twice--once by Cyril and once by the interpreter. Cyril
rather enjoyed himself. He warmed to his work, and told the tale
of the Phoenix and the Carpet, and the Lone Tower, and the
Queen-Cook, in language that grew insensibly more and more Arabian
Nightsy, and the ranee and her ladies listened to the interpreter,
and rolled about on their fat cushions with laughter.

When the story was ended she spoke, and the interpreter explained
that she had said, 'Little one, thou art a heaven-born teller of
tales,' and she threw him a string of turquoises from round her
neck.

'OH, how lovely!' cried Jane and Anthea.

Cyril bowed several times, and then cleared his throat and said--

'Thank her very, very much; but I would much rather she gave me
some of the cheap things in the bazaar. Tell her I want them to
sell again, and give the money to buy clothes for poor people who
haven't any.'

'Tell him he has my leave to sell my gift and clothe the naked with
its price,' said the queen, when this was translated.

But Cyril said very firmly, 'No, thank you. The things have got to
be sold to-day at our bazaar, and no one would buy a turquoise
necklace at an English bazaar. They'd think it was sham, or else