ve--like school prizes are said to be. But it
seemed a little absent-minded, and even a little sad.

'Don't you feel well, Phoenix, dear?' asked Anthea, stooping to take an
iron off the fire.

'I am not sick,' replied the golden bird, with a gloomy shake of the
head; 'but I am getting old.'

'Why, you've hardly been hatched any time at all.'

'Time,' remarked the Phoenix, 'is measured by heartbeats. I'm sure the
palpitations I've had since I've known you are enough to blanch the
feathers of any bird.'

'But I thought you lived 500 years,' said Robert, and you've hardly
begun this set of years. Think of all the time that's before you.'

'Time,' said the Phoenix, 'is, as you are probably aware, merely a
convenient fiction. There is no such thing as time. I have lived in
these two months at a pace which generously counterbalances 500 years of
life in the desert. I am old, I am weary. I feel as if I ought to lay my
egg, and lay me down to my fiery sleep. But unless I'm careful I shall
be hatched again instantly, and that is a misfortune which I really
do not think I COULD endure. But do not let me intrude these desperate
personal reflections on your youthful happiness. What is the show at the
theatre to-night? Wrestlers? Gladiators? A combat of cameleopards and
unicorns?'

'I don't think so,' said Cyril; 'it's called "The Water Babies", and
if it's like the book there isn't any gladiating in it. There are
chimney-sweeps and professors, and a lobster and an otter and a salmon,
and children living in the water.'

'It sounds chilly.' The Phoenix shivered, and went to sit on the tongs.

'I don't suppose there will be REAL water,' said Jane. 'And theatres are
very warm and pretty, with a lot of gold and lamps. Wouldn't you like to
come with us?'

'_I_ was just going to say that,' said Robert, in injured tones, 'only
I know how rude it is to interrupt. Do come, Phoenix, old chap; it will
cheer you up. It'll make you laugh like any thing. Mr Bourchier always
makes ripping plays. You ought to have seen "Shock-headed Peter" last
year.'

'Your words are strange,' said the Phoenix, 'but I will come with you.
The revels of this Bourchier, of whom you speak, may help me to forget
the weight of my years.' So that evening the Phoenix snugged inside the
waistcoat of Robert's Etons--a very tight fit it seemed both to Robert
and to the Phoenix--and was taken to the play.

Robert had to pretend to be cold at the glittering, man