"I was just going to ask you that," said Jane. And then Cyril cried--

"Why, it's _you_! I know the hole in your pinafore! You _are_ Jane,
aren't you? And you're the Panther; I can see your dirty handkerchief
that you forgot to change after you'd cut your thumb! The wish _has_
come off, after all. I say, am I as handsome as you are?"

"If you're Cyril, I liked you much better as you were before," said
Anthea decidedly. "You look like the picture of the young chorister,
with your golden hair; you'll die young, I shouldn't wonder. And if
that's Robert, he's like an Italian organ-grinder. His hair's all
black."

"You two girls are like Christmas cards, then--that's all--silly
Christmas cards," said Robert angrily. "And Jane's hair is simply
carrots."

It was indeed of that Venetian tint so much admired by artists.

"Well, it's no use finding fault with each other," said Anthea; "let's
get the Lamb and lug it home to dinner. The servants will admire us most
awfully, you'll see."

Baby was just waking up when they got to him, and not one of the
children but was relieved to find that he at least was not as beautiful
as the day, but just the same as usual.

"I suppose he's too young to have wishes naturally," said Jane. "We
shall have to mention him specially next time."