“I don’t believe the sun’s going to set tonight at all.”

“Give them the water first—the brutes!” said the bloodthirsty Robert. So Anthea tilted the pot over the nearest lead-hole, and poured. They heard a splash below, but no one below seemed to have felt it. And again the ram battered the great door. Anthea paused.

“How idiotic,” said Robert, lying flat on the floor and putting one eye to the lead hole. “Of course the holes go straight down into the gatehouse—that’s for when the enemy has got past the door and the portcullis, and almost all is lost. Here, hand me the pot.” He crawled on to the three-cornered window-ledge in the middle of the wall, and, taking the pot from Anthea, poured the water out through the arrow-slit.

Anthea tilted the pot over the nearest lead-hole

And as he began to pour, the noise of the battering-ram and the trampling of the foe and the shouts of “Surrender!” and “De Talbot for ever!” all suddenly stopped and went out like the snuff of a candle; the little dark room seemed to whirl round and turn topsy-turvy, and when the children came to themselves there they were safe and sound, in the big front bedroom of their own house—the house with the ornamental nightmare iron-top to the roof.

They all crowded to the window and looked out. The moat and the tents and the besieging force were all gone—and there was the garden with its tangle of dahlias and marigolds and asters and late roses, and the spiky iron railings and the quiet white road.

Everyone drew a deep breath.

“And that’s all right!” said Robert. “I told you so! And, I say, we didn’t surrender, did we?”

“Aren’t you glad now I wished for a castle?” asked Cyril.

“I think I am now,” said Anthea slowly. “But I wouldn’t wish for it again, I think, Squirrel dear!”

“Oh, it was simply splendid!” said Jane unexpectedly. “I wasn’t frightened a bit.”

“Oh, I say!” Cyril was beginning, but Anthea stopped him.

“Look here,” she said, “it’s just come into my head. This is the very first thing we’ve wished for that hasn’t got us into a row. And there hasn’t been the least little scrap of a row about this. Nobody’s raging downstairs, we’re safe and sound, we’ve had an awfully jolly day—at least, not jolly exactly, but you know what I mean. And we know now how brave Robert is—and Cyril too, of course,” she added hastily, “and Jane as well. And we haven’t got into a row with a single grown up.”

The door was opened suddenly and fiercely.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” said the voice of Martha, and they could tell by her voice that she was very angry indeed. “I thought you couldn’t last through the day without getting up to some doggery! A person can’t take a breath of air on the front doorstep but you must be emptying the wash-hand jug on to their heads! Off you go to bed, the lot of you, and try to get up better children in the morning. Now then—don’t let me have to tell you twice. If I find any of you not in bed in ten minutes I’ll let you know it, that’s all! A new cap, and everything!”

She flounced out amid a disregarded chorus of regrets and apologies. The children were very sorry, but really it was not their faults. You can’t help it if you are pouring water on a besieging foe, and your castle suddenly changes into your house—and everything changes with it except the water, and that happens to fall on somebody else’s clean cap.

“I don’t know why the water didn’t change into nothing, though,” said Cyril.

“Why should it?” asked Robert. “Water’s water all the world over.

“I expect the castle well was the same as ours in the stable-yard,” said Jane. And that was really the case.

“I thought we couldn’t get through a wish-day without a row,” said Cyril; “it was much too good to be true. Come on, Bobs, my military hero. If we lick into bed sharp she won’t be so frumious, and perhaps she’ll bring us up some supper. I’m jolly hungry! Good-night, kids.”

“Good-night. I hope the castle won’t come creeping back in the night,” said Jane.

“Of course it won’t,” said Anthea briskly, “but Martha will—not in the night, but in a minute. Here, turn round, I’ll get that knot out of your pinafore strings.”

“Wouldn’t it have been degrading for Sir Wulfric de Talbot,” said Jane dreamily, “if