ere I think you're wrong,' said Cyril; 'even people who talk English
sometimes say things that don't mean anything in particular.'

'Oh, never mind that now,' moaned Anthea; 'you think "Aggety dag" meant
something to him and the carpet?'

'Beyond doubt it held the same meaning to the carpet as to the luckless
infant,' the Phoenix said calmly.

'And WHAT did it mean? Oh WHAT?'

'Unfortunately,' the bird rejoined, 'I never studied Bosh.'

Jane sobbed noisily, but the others were calm with what is sometimes
called the calmness of despair. The Lamb was gone--the Lamb, their own
precious baby brother--who had never in his happy little life been for a
moment out of the sight of eyes that loved him--he was gone. He had gone
alone into the great world with no other companion and protector than a
carpet with holes in it. The children had never really understood
before what an enormously big place the world is. And the Lamb might be
anywhere in it!

'And it's no use going to look for him.' Cyril, in flat and wretched
tones, only said what the others were thinking.

'Do you wish him to return?' the Phoenix asked; it seemed to speak with
some surprise.

'Of course we do!' cried everybody.

'Isn't he more trouble than he's worth?' asked the bird doubtfully.

'No, no. Oh, we do want him back! We do!'

'Then,' said the wearer of gold plumage, 'if you'll excuse me, I'll just
pop out and see what I can do.'

Cyril flung open the window, and the Phoenix popped out.

'Oh, if only mother goes on sleeping! Oh, suppose she wakes up and wants
the Lamb! Oh, suppose the servants come! Stop crying, Jane. It's no
earthly good. No, I'm not crying myself--at least I wasn't till you said
so, and I shouldn't anyway if--if there was any mortal thing we could
do. Oh, oh, oh!'

Cyril and Robert were boys, and boys never cry, of course. Still, the
position was a terrible one, and I do not wonder that they made faces in
their efforts to behave in a really manly way.

And at this awful moment mother's bell rang.

A breathless stillness held the children. Then Anthea dried her eyes.
She looked round her and caught up the poker. She held it out to Cyril.

'Hit my hand hard,' she said; 'I must show mother some reason for my
eyes being like they are. Harder,' she cried as Cyril gently tapped her
with the iron handle. And Cyril, agitated and trembling, nerved himself
to hit harder, and hit very much harder than he intended.

Anthea screame