ush and
diamond buckles, stood in dignified majesty, the Cat at his side. There
was another wonderful picture of Dick asleep at the Cross Roads, fairies
watching over him, and London Town in a lighted purple distance--and
another of the streets of Old London with a comic fat serving man,
diamond-paned windows, cobblestones and high pointing eaves to the
houses.

Jeremy saw these pictures for the first time during one of his afternoon
walks, and returned home in such a state of choking excitement that
he could not drink his tea. As was ever his way he was silent and
controlled about the matter, asked very few questions, and although
he talked to himself a little did not disturb the general peace of the
nursery. On Mary and Helen the effect of the posters had been less. Mary
was following the adventures of the May family in "The Daisy Chain," and
Helen was making necklaces for herself out of a box of beads that had
been given her.

When Jeremy said once, "Who was the man in the red trousers with gold
on them?" no one paid any attention save Hamlet, who wagged his tail,
looked wise and growled a little.

Who indeed could tell how he ached and longed and desired He had a very
vague idea as to the nature of a play; they had often dressed up at home
and pretended to be different things and people, and, of course, he knew
by heart the whole history of Dick Whittington, but this knowledge
and experience did not in the least force him to realise that this
performance of Mr. Denny's was simply a larger, more developed "dressing
up" and pretending. In some mysterious but nevertheless direct fashion
Dick Whittington was coming to Polchester. It was just as he had
heard for a long time of the existence of Aunt Emily who lived in
Manchester--and then one day she appeared in a black bonnet and a shawl,
and gave them wet kisses and sixpence apiece.

Dick Whittington was coming, having perhaps heard that Polchester was
a very jolly place. So might come any day Jack of the Beanstalk,
Cinderella, Queen Victoria, and God.

There were questions meanwhile that he would like to ask, but he was
already a victim to that properly English fear of making a fool of
himself, so he asked nothing. He dragged out his toy village and
tried to make it a bridge in his imagination between the nursery and
Whittington's world. As the village opened a door from the nursery, so
might Whittington open a door from the village.

He considered Hamlet and w