caught her by the skirts and apron. 'Look here,' said Cyril, in
stern desperation, 'will you go away, and make your pudding in a
pie-dish, or a flower-pot, or a hot-water can, or something?'

'Not me,' said the cook, briefly; 'and leave this precious poppet
for you to give his deathercold to.'

'I warn you,' said Cyril, solemnly. 'Beware, ere yet it be too
late.'

' Late yourself the little popsey-wopsey,' said the cook, with
angry tenderness. 'They shan't take it out, no more they shan't.
And--Where did you get that there yellow fowl?' She pointed to the
Phoenix.

Even Anthea saw that unless the cook lost her situation the loss
would be theirs.

'I wish,' she said suddenly, 'we were on a sunny southern shore,
where there can't be any whooping-cough.'

She said it through the frightened howls of the Lamb, and the
sturdy scoldings of the cook, and instantly the
giddy-go-round-and-falling-lift feeling swept over the whole party,
and the cook sat down flat on the carpet, holding the screaming
Lamb tight to her stout print-covered self, and calling on St
Bridget to help her. She was an Irishwoman.

The moment the tipsy-topsy-turvy feeling stopped, the cook opened
her eyes, gave one sounding screech and shut them again, and Anthea