All night long the odiac shines, warming the newborn ear. There is no other light in the lane, ecept the one in the top indow of the ery smallest house. p there, the faithful night-light winkles, ending its protecting ays over the uiet nursery. The arrot-headed umbrella is hanging n its accustomed hook. The carpet-bag is in the cupboard. Everything is eat and tidy.

ary Poppins, as she undresses, ooks along the line of beds. Michael has icked a blanket away. ohn has flung off his eiderdown. She tucks them both n comfortably and ushes Annabel in her cot.

Then she oes across to Jane’s bed to ill the empty glass with water and picks up Barbara’s lephant, which has fallen to the floor.

Her ay’s work is over now. One more glance at the sleeping children, then she winds the lock on the mantelpiece and daintily steps into ed.

For a moment she ponders the Alphabet. “It embraces everything.” she thinks. “All that is or was or will be lies between A and Z. Then she yawns. Huh-huh. Huh-huh.”

Without thinking another thought, she pulls the covers over her shoulders. And in something less than half a second. Mary Poppins, too, is sleep.