Thither were the Ogilvies bound, in search of primrose banks, but
their way led them past two or three houses on the hill-top, one of
which, being constructed on supposed Chinese principles of
architecture, was known to its friends as "the Pagoda," to its foes
as "the Folly." It had been long untenanted, but this winter it had
been put into complete repair, and two rooms, showing a sublime
indifference to consistency of architecture, had been lately built
out with sash windows and a slated roof, contrasting oddly with the
frilled and fluted tiles of the tower from which it jutted.

Suddenly there sounded close to their ears the words-—"School time,
my dear!"

Starting and looking round for some impertinent street boy, Mr.
Ogilvie exclaimed, "What's that?"

"Mother Carey! We are all Mother Carey's chickens."

"See, there," exclaimed Mary, and a great parrot was visible on the
branch of a sumach, which stretched over the railings of the low wall
of the pagoda garden. "O you appropriate bird,—-you surely ought not
to be here!"

To which the parrot replied, "Hic, haec, hoc!" and burst out in a
wild scream of laughing, spreading her grey wings, and showing
intentions of flying away; but Mr. Ogilvie caught hold of the chain
that hung from her leg.

Just then voices broke out—-