eing that both these old creatures were extremely pleased
with him.

"When shall I see the other Mouldiwarp?" he asked, to keep up the
conversation--"the one on our shield of arms?"

"You mean the Mouldiestwarp?" said the Mouldier, as I will now call him
for short; "you will not see him till the end of the magic. He is very
great. I work the magic of space, my brother here works the magic of
time, and the Great Mouldiestwarp controls us, and many things beside.
You must only call on him when you wish to end our magics and to work a
magic greater than ours."

"What could be greater?" Dickie asked, and both the creatures looked
very pleased.

"He is a worthier Arden than those little black and white chits of
thine," the Mouldier said to the Mouldy (which is what, to save time, we
will now call the Mouldiwarp).

"An' so should be--an' so should be," said the Mouldy shortly. "All's
for the best, and the end's to come. Where'd ye want to go, my lord?"

"I'm not 'my lord'; I'm only Richard Arden," said Dickie, "and I want
to go back to Mr. Beale and stay with him for seven months, and then to
find my cousins."

"Back thou goes then," said the Mouldy; "that part's easy."

"And for the second half of thy wish no magic is needed but the magic of
steadfast heart and the patient purpose, and these thou hast without any
helping or giving of ours," said the courtly Mouldierwarp.

They waved their white paws on the gray-blue curtain of mist, and behold
they were not there any more, and the blue-gray mist was only the
night's darkness turning to dawn, and Dickie was able again to feel
solid things--the floor under him, his hand on the sharp edge of the
armchair, and the soft, breathing, comfortable weight of True, asleep
against his knee. He moved, the dog awoke, and Dickie felt its soft nose
nuzzled into his hand.

"And now for seven months' work, and not one good dream," said Dickie,
got up, put Tinkler and the seal and the moon-seeds into a very safe
place, and crept back to bed.

He felt rather heroic. He did not want the treasure. It was not for him.
He was going to help Edred and Elfrida to get it. He did not want the
life at Lavender Terrace. He was going to help Mr. Beale to live it. So
let him feel a little bit of a hero, since that was what indeed he was,
even though, of course, all right-minded children are modest and humble,
and fully sensible of their own intense unimportance, no matter how
heroically they m