excited to talk. At one moment St. Leath took her arm to guide her past a
confused mob of bewildered sheep. The Glebeshire peasant on marketing-day
has plenty of conversation. Old wrinkled women, stout red-faced farmers,
boys and girls all shouted together, and above the scene the light driving
clouds flung their transparent shadows, like weaving shuttles across the
sun.

"Oh, do let's stop here a moment," said Joan, peering into one of the
arcades. "I've always loved this one all my life. I've never been able to
resist it."

This was the Toy Arcade, now, I'm afraid, gone the way of so many other
romantic things. It had been to all of us the most wonderful spot in
Polchester from the very earliest days, this partly because of the toys
themselves, partly because it was the densest and darkest of all the
Arcades, never utterly to be pierced by our youthful eyes, partly because
only two doors away were the sinister rooms of Mr. Dawson, the dentist.
Here not only was there every kind of toy--dolls, soldiers, horses, carts,
games, tops, hoops, dogs, elephants--but also sweets--chocolates, jujubes,
caramels, and the best sweet in the whole world, the Polchester Bull's-
eye.

They went in together. Mrs. Magnet, now with God, an old woman like a
berry, always in a bonnet with green flowers, smiled and bobbed. The
colours of the toys jumbled against the dark walls were like patterns in a
carpet.

"What do you say, Miss Brandon?" said Johnny. "If I give you a toy will
you give me one?"