" said The Seraph, briskly. "She was too comical to be a
nice wife."

"Ah, no," replied the cobbler. "She's weak in her head and bound to come to
something hurtful. I'll not seek my bed this night until I've found her. I
thought mayhap you'd ha' seen her pass!"

"No," replied Angel. "We didn't. But perhaps the lamplighter did."

With one accord, we hurried after the retreating figure. Hearing our
footsteps, he turned and faced us beneath a newly lit lamp. Its serene
radiance fell on his solemn blue-eyed face, surrounded by red whiskers.

"What's the turmoil?" he asked. "Did I forget a lamp?"

"Have ye seen a strange-appearing woman?" asked Martindale. "With a shawl
about her, and mayhap remarking something about the moon, or a evil-minded
canary."

The lamplighter ran his fingers through his red beard. "She warn't saying
naught about canaries," he affirmed, "but she did say as how if she could
once get the moon in Wumble Pool, she'd drown it."

"Wumble Pool. That's where she's gone then. I can't seem to place it."

"It's less nor a mile from here, and since my last lamp is lit, I'll not
mind guiding you so far. Who be she, this woman?"

"My wife. She's fey, and I'm fearing she'll drown herself."

"It's a very bad fing to be drowned," put in The Seraph, as we all set off
together. "'Cos a bath in a tub is wet enough."

What a chill, dark night it was growing! The Cathedral clock struck a
hollow warning note as we passed. We heard the beat of wings as the pigeons
settled for the night.

The Seraph grasped a hand each of the cobbler and the lamplighter, taking
long manful strides to keep up with them. We seemed, indeed, a sinister
company setting out on dark adventure.

Hurriedly we traversed narrow, winding streets, where night had already
fallen in the shadow of clammy walls. Strange and eerie was the path
between wet trees, when we had left the town behind. The lamplighter with
his tall wand alight seemed like some unearthly messenger come to conduct
us to goblin realms.

We spoke never a word till an open common lay before us; then the
lamplighter pointing with his wand to a glimmering surface fringed by rank
grass, said:

"Yon's Wumble Pool."

Wumble Pool! The very name struck a chill to our hearts.

"Yes, and there's the moon," whispered the cobbler.

It was true that the distorted image of the moon floated dimly in the Pool,
as though it had indeed been caught by the mad-woman, and drowned.

"