er Mrs.
Stimpson was quite justified in bringing her, inclined to welcome almost
any change from the evening _routine_ of "Inglegarth." And then, after
Mrs. Stimpson had given some hurried instructions to the hopelessly
mystified Mitchell, the whole family issued out of the Queen Anne porch,
and were conducted by Treuherz, who, to their intense confusion,
insisted on walking backwards to the car, while the heralds performed
another flourish on their silver trumpets. It was pitch-dark when they
had got to the asphalt pavement outside their gates, but they could just
make out the contours of the car in the light that streamed across the
hedge to the stained glass front-door.

"Jolly queer-looking car," said Clarence. It was certainly unusually
large, and seemed to have somewhat fantastic lines and decorations.

"Oh, never mind about the car!" cried Mrs. Wibberley-Stimpson, who was
inside it already, a vague, bundled-up shape in the gloom. "It's part of
the Pageant, of course! Get in, Clarence, get in! We're late as it is!
and if there's a thing I detest, it's keeping people waiting!"

"All right, Mater!" said Clarence, clambering in. "I can't make out what
the dickens they've done with the bonnet--but we seem to be moving,
what?"

Slowly the car had begun to glide along the road. Mr. Treuherz was
seated in front, probably at the steering-wheel, though none was
visible. The heralds sat in the rear, and the car was of such a size
that there was abundant room for the family in the centre. Some yards
ahead they heard a curious dry rustle and clatter, and could distinguish
a confused grey mass of forms that seemed to be clearing the way for
them, though whether they were human beings it was not possible to tell
till they passed a lighted street-lamp.

"Why, goodness gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Wibberley-Stimpson, "they look
like--like _ostriches_!"

She was mistaken here, because they were merely storks, but, before she
could identify them more correctly, they all suddenly rose in the air
with a whirr like that of a hundred spinning looms--and the car rose
with them.

"Stop!" screamed Mrs. Wibberley-Stimpson, "Sidney, tell Mr. Troitz to
stop! I _insist_ on knowing where we are being taken to!"

Treuherz glanced over his shoulder. "Where should I conduct your
Majesties," he said, "but to your own Kingdom of Maerchenland?"

Mrs. Stimpson and her husband would no doubt have protested, demanded
explanations, insisted upon