tely bow, then he turned his head in the direction
of Lal, the Pleasant-Faced Lion, and bowed and smiled.

"Quite gorgeous," observed Ridgwell when the procession had passed,
"but I always thought from what you told us that Alderman Gold was tall
and thin."

"Ah," said the Writer, "that was at the beginning of the story, and he
was a Miser then, and most misers are thin; but as he grew more and
more cheerful, more and more happy, he grew a bit fatter and a bit
fatter still, and then he got colour in his cheeks, until he became the
jolly, agreeable, fat, old, good-natured gentleman you have seen just
now in the distance. However, you will be able to see him at closer
quarters and make his jolly acquaintance for yourselves presently, for
he will call here and see me after all the ceremony is over."

"Will he be in time for tea?" inquired Christine.

"No, much too late for tea, Christine, but there will be a welcome for
him, which I know he is looking forward to, and something I think he
will like better than the big City banquet he has presided at, and it
will be waiting for him here--a good cigar and a drink," and the Writer
indicated a very handsome piece of old oak furniture at the end of the
long room, which contained mysterious little cupboards which opened in
odd angles and unexpected curves.

"I do hope he will turn up in his robes," ventured Ridgwell. "I rather
want to see what they are like."

"We must wait and see about that, and as it must be some considerable
time before tea, and a longer time still before His Worshipful the
Mayor can possibly be here, I propose to finish the rest of the story I
told you, right up to the present time. Of course, Lal may give the
sign he promised to-night, or he may not; if he does you will both be
here to see it."

Thereupon Ridgwell and Christine curled themselves up upon the broad
window seat, and prepared to listen.

The Writer closed the window, and they all noticed that the crowds
beneath were rapidly dispersing; occasionally some one would stop for a
second and look at the big wreath of water-lilies between the Lion's
paws, but the majority of people passing appeared not to have noticed
it at all.

"Where did I get to in the story?" asked the Writer.

"Lal had said his last word to you," volunteered Ridgwell; "and what I
particularly want to know is this: how did that second mysterious
promise about Dick Whittington come true eventually, and did you ever