T was evening. The fire burned brightly in the inn parlour. We
had been that day to see Shakespeare’s house, and I had told the
children all that I could about him and his work. Now they were
sitting by the table, poring over a big volume of the Master's plays,
lent them by the landlord. And I, with eyes fixed on the fire, was
wandering happily in the immortal dreamland peopled by Rosalind
and Imogen, Lear and Hamlet. <A small sigh roused me—

““T can’t understand a word of it,” said Iris.

“And you said it was so beautiful,” Rosamund added, reproachfully.
“ What does it all mean?”

“Yes,” Iris went on, “ you said it was a fairy-tale, and we've read
three pages, and there’s nothing about fairies, not even a dwarf, or a
fairy god-mother.”

“ And what does ‘ miseratted’ mean ?”

“ And ‘vantage,’ and ‘austerity, and ‘belike,’ and ‘edict,’ and—”

“Stop, stop,” I cried ; “I will tell you the story.”

In a moment they were nestling beside me, cooing with the pleasure
that the promise of a story always brings them.

“But you must be quiet a moment, and let me think.”