be sure she held fast to Pirlaps.  And when Pirlaps had to leave them in order to go to a barber-shop (Avrillia had not insisted upon his bringing his shaving things today, but he went to a barber-shop every two hours) she would not cross the street, but stayed on the sidewalk.  Pirlaps changed his trousers at the barber-shop, too, whenever it was necessary; but today there were so much to do and see that he did not sit on his step as much as usual, and so did not need as many.

For they had a good deal of shopping to do, besides showing Sara the sights.  In the first place, Avrillia had to go to the stationery store and get a new supply of swan’s-quill pens.  “That’s one store I always know where to find,” she said.  “The others change about so that I always have to ask somebody.”  Then, Pirlaps needed some new trousers (two or three pairs had worn out and he only had forty-four or five left) and some shaving soap.  “And besides,” said Avrillia, smiling at Sara mysteriously, “we want to get some presents.”

“And you’ll have to make your usual visits of charity.  Oh, I know you, Avrillia,” said Pirlaps.  “If we don’t hurry we won’t catch the evening boat.”

So they went first to the stationery store (which, just as Avrillia had said, was in the usual place), and then to a bazaar where they disposed of their household buying.  While Sara was feasting her eyes on the strange, delicious-looking fruits, the old candlesticks, and the bolts and lengths of rich-looking cloth with stories woven into it, she heard Avrillia say, “Now a set of self-buttoning buttons, please.”

The jolly little old leather-colored man who kept the bazaar winked at Sara as he brought out the buttons for Avrillia’s inspection.  They looked very much like ordinary buttons, except that they were, of course, more intelligent-looking, and they were on a pink card instead of a white one; also, they were in a shiny lacquer box, the lid of which was watched over by gold dragons.

“They will do very nicely,” said Avrillia.  “Now a thimble—­a really good one, please, that is thoroughly finger-broken, and has a tractable disposition and some sense.  The one this little girl has now is simply abominable, and wouldn’t push a needle through cobweb—­not to mention the heavy textiles they are obliged to use in her country.  Now, some knotless thread, please,” she continued, having decided upon a thimble after much careful thought.  “Oh, no—­not that!  I don’t mean the kind that won’t take a knot at the end; what I want is the kind that won’t tangle and snarl, even if a child’s fingers are tired.  There, that’s it!” and she tucked a smiling little spool into Sara’s apron pocket.

“Now, Sara,” she asked, “is there any other simple little thing you’d like to have?  They have self-washing hands and self-learning lessons, and such things, but they’re very expensive, and I know your mother wouldn’t want you to accept expensive presents,” and she smiled at Sara affectionately.