"You oughtn't to say 'Never mind,'" pursued Prudy: "my mother tells me
_always_ to mind."
"I only mean it isn't any matter, Prudy."
"Oh! do you? Then don't you care for my skeeter-bites? You always say,
'Never mind!' I didn't know it wasn't _any matter_."
"Now, ma," Grace went on, "I want to ask you where are those
I-don't-know-what-to-call-'ems? And may I copy them, Cassy and I, into
a book, for a certain afflicted relative?"
"Yes, yes, on gold-edged paper!" cried Prudy, springing up from the
sofa; "oh, do, do; I'll love you dearly if you will! Fairy stories are
just as nice! What little Harvey Sherwood likes, _I_ like, and I've
had the measles; _but_ I shouldn't think his father and mother'd wear
their hat and bonnet to the dinner-table!"
"Deary me!" laughed Grace; "how happened that little thing to mistrust
what I meant?"
"It would be strange if a child of her age, of ordinary abilities,
should _not_ understand," remarked Mrs. Clifford, somewhat amused.
"Next time you wish to ask me any thing confidentially, I advise you
to choose a better opportunity."
"When may she, Aunt 'Ria?" cried Prudy, entirely forgetting her
troubles; "when may she write it, Aunt 'Ria, she and Cassy?"
"A pretty piece of folly it would be, wouldn't it, dear, when you
can't read a word of writing?"
"But Susy can a little, auntie; and mother can a great deal: and I'll
never tease 'em, only nights when I go to bed, and days when I don't
feel well. Please, Aunt 'Ria."
"Yes, ma, I know you can't refuse," said Grace.
Mrs. Clifford hesitated. "The stories are yellow with age, Grace;
they were written in my girlhood: and they are rather torn and
disarranged, if I remember. Besides, my child, my flowing hand is
difficult to read."
"Oh, mamma, I think you write beautifully! splendidly!"
"Another objection," continued Mrs. Clifford: "they are rather too old
for Prudy, I should judge."
"But I keep a-growing, Aunt 'Ria! Don't you s'pose I know what fairy
stories mean? They don't mean any thing! You didn't feel afraid I'd
believe 'em, did you? I wouldn't believe 'em, I _promise_ I wouldn't;
just as true's I'm walking on this floor!"
"Indeed, I hope you would not, little Prudy; for I made them up as I
went along. There are no fairies but those we have in our hearts. Our
best thoughts are good fairies; and our worst thoughts are evil
fairies."
"Oh, yes, auntie, I know! When we go bathing in the ocean, Susy says,
'Let's be all clean, so the spirit of the water can enter our hearts.'
And it does; but it goes in by our noses."
Mrs. Clifford had tacitly given her consent to Grace's copying the
stories. This task was performed accordingly, much to the disgust of
Horace, who declared that of the whole number only the tale of "Wild
Robin" was worth reading.
"And 'Wild Robin,'" said Grace, instructively, "is the only one that
has a moral for you, Horace. When our soldiers are starving so, it is
really dreadful to see how you dislike corned beef and despise
vegetables! Such a dainty boy as you needs to be stolen a while by the
fairies."
"Well, Gracie, I reckon you'd run double-quick to pull me off the
milk-white steed. You couldn't get along without me two days. Look
here! what story has a moral for you, miss? It's the 'Water-kelpie.'
You are like the man that married Moneta: you're always wanting
money."
"But it's for the soldiers, Horace," said Grace, with a smile of
forbearance toward her brother. "I'm willing to give all my
pocket-money; and I mean the other girls shall. If we're stingy to our
country these days, we ought to be shot! 'Princess Hilda's' the best
story in the book. I wish Isa Harrington could read it! She wouldn't
make any more mischief between Cassy and me!"
"I like 'The Lost Sylphid' the best," said Prudy; "but _was_ she a
great butterfly, do you s'pose? The stories are all just as nice; just
like book stories. I shouldn't think anybody made 'em up. Aunt 'Ria
can write as good as the big girls to the grammar-school. I promised
not to believe a single word; and I sha'n't. I'm glad she called it
_my_ Fairy Book."