nly a very little scorched,' said the Phoenix, apologetically;
'it will come out in the wash. Please go on reading.'

The children gathered round the table.

'The size of an eagle,' Cyril went on, 'its head finely crested with a
beautiful plumage, its neck covered with feathers of a gold colour, and
the rest of its body purple; only the tail white, and the eyes sparkling
like stars. They say that it lives about five hundred years in the
wilderness, and when advanced in age it builds itself a pile of sweet
wood and aromatic gums, fires it with the wafting of its wings, and thus
burns itself; and that from its ashes arises a worm, which in time grows
up to be a Phoenix. Hence the Phoenicians gave--'

'Never mind what they gave,' said the Phoenix, ruffling its golden
feathers. 'They never gave much, anyway; they always were people who
gave nothing for nothing. That book ought to be destroyed. It's
most inaccurate. The rest of my body was never purple, and as for
my--tail--well, I simply ask you, IS it white?'

It turned round and gravely presented its golden tail to the children.

'No, it's not,' said everybody.

'No, and it never was,' said the Phoenix. 'And that about the worm
is just a vulgar insult. The Phoenix has an egg, like all respectable
birds. It makes a pile--that part's all right--and it lays its egg, and
it burns itself; and it goes to sleep and wakes up in its egg, and comes
out and goes on living again, and so on for ever and ever. I can't tell
you how weary I got of it--such a restless existence; no repose.'

'But how did your egg get HERE?' asked Anthea.

'Ah, that's my life-secret,' said the Phoenix. 'I couldn't tell it to
any one who wasn't really sympathetic. I've always been a misunderstood
bird. You can tell that by what they say about the worm. I might tell
YOU,' it went on, looking at Robert with eyes that were indeed starry.
'You put me on the fire--' Robert looked uncomfortable.

'The rest of us made the fire of sweet-scented woods and gums, though,'
said Cyril.

'And--and it was an accident my putting you on the fire,' said Robert,
telling the truth with some difficulty, for he did not know how the
Phoenix might take it. It took it in the most unexpected manner.

'Your candid avowal,' it said, 'removes my last scruple. I will tell you
my story.'

'And you won't vanish, or anything sudden will you? asked Anthea,
anxiously.

'Why?' it asked, puffing out the golden feathers, 'do you