"Where have you been?" he asked.
"Why, where haven't I been?" said Marian, and then she told them all about it. Cuthbert didn't believe her. But Cuthbert didn't believe anything. He was nine years old, and was beginning to learn French. But Mummy believed her, and Daddy believed her; and I'll tell you another thing that happened.
Late that night, when everybody was asleep, Mr Jugg flew to Marian's window. Marian's angel—everybody has a guardian angel—was smoking a quiet cigarette on the sill outside.
"Hullo!" he said; "fancy seeing you here!"
He had once been a bumpy, you see, and Mr Jugg had taught him to fly.
"Good evening," said Mr Jugg; "what do you think of this?"
It was a little dream that he had brought for Marian.
"By George!" said the angel, "that's a beauty."
He slipped it very softly under Marian's pillow.
She must have dreamed it too, for next morning when Mummy made her bed it wasn't there. But, alas! the loveliest dreams of all are the ones that we never remember.