"Shall I tell you a story, Jeremy? I've got a new one. Once upon a
time there were three little boys, and they lived in a wood, and an
old witch ate them, and the Princess who had heaps of jewellery and
a white horse and a lovely gold dress came, and it was snowing and
the witch--"

This was always Mary's way. She loved to tell Jeremy interesting
stories, and he did not mind because he did not listen and could
meanwhile think his own thoughts.

His chief decision arrived at as he marched along was that he would
keep the village to himself; no one else should put their fingers
into it, arrange the orchard with the coloured trees, decide upon
the names of the Noah family, settle the village street in its final
order, ring the bell of the church, or milk the cows. He alone would
do all these things. And, so considering, he seemed to himself very
like God. God, he supposed, could pull Polchester about, root out a
house here, another there, knock the Assembly Rooms down and send a
thunderbolt on to the apple woman's umbrella. Well, then--so could
he with his village. He walked swollen with pride. He arrived at the
first Island of Circe, namely, the window of Mr. Thompson, the
jeweller in Market Street, pressed his nose to the pane, and refused
to listen when the Jampot suggested that he should move forward.

He could see the diamonds like drops of water in the sun, and the
pearls like drops of milk, and the rubies like drops of blood, but
it was not of diamonds, pearls or rubies that he was thinking--he
thought only of his village. He would ring the church bell, and then
all the Noah family should start out of the door, down the garden,
up the village street. . . It did not matter if one of the younger