"And he SHALL go to bed!" cried the dragon, starting up.
"Poor little chap, only fancy his being up at this hour! It's a
shame, that's what it is, and I don't think, St. George, you've
been very considerate--but come along at once, and don't let us
have any more arguing or shilly-shallying. You give me hold of
your hand, Boy--thank you, George, an arm up the hill is just
what I wanted!"

So they set off up the hill arm-in-arm, the Saint, the Dragon,
and the Boy. The lights in the little village began to go out;
but there were stars, and a late moon, as they climbed to the
Downs together. And, as they turned the last corner and
disappeared from view, snatches of an old song were borne
back on the night-breeze. I can't be certain which of them was
singing, but I THINK it was the Dragon!


"Here we are at your gate," said the man, abruptly, laying his
hand on it. "Good-night. Cut along in sharp, or you'll catch
it!"

Could it really be our own gate? Yes, there it was, sure enough,
with the familiar marks on its bottom bar made by our feet when
we swung on it.

"Oh, but wait a minute!" cried Charlotte. "I want to know a heap
of things. Did the dragon really settle down? And did--"

"There isn't any more of that story," said the man, kindly but
firmly. "At least, not to-night. Now be off! Good-bye!"