There had been a great commotion in Fairyland. The gnomes--who formed

the Opposition Party--had turned disloyal and wanted a republic;

whereupon the King, hurt in his dignity, insisted upon abdicating. In

fact, he was tired of power, and glad of the excuse to resign. In spite

of the prayers and entreaties of those who desired him to remain in

office he returned to the Treasury the Golden Key, together with the

crown and other royal jewels, and, to the concern of every one who

wasn't a gnome, went forth to play skittles--his sole interest and only

hobby.

Of all the regalia, the most precious object was the Golden Key, for

whoever held it was made King of Fairyland by virtue of its possession;

and it was ordained that it could only be parted with at the monarch's

free will. It could be surrendered; it could not be withdrawn.

So the old King deposited it in the Treasury, leaving his people--the

faithful and unfaithful alike--to fight out the matter as best they

could. In so doing they fought their very best. The quarrel between the

gnomes and the fairies waxed furious in their patriotic eagerness to get

their own way. But while blows were exchanged and relations were

otherwise strained, and the Monarchists, generally speaking, were highly

annoyed, and the Republicans were even more perturbed, the latter

suddenly lay low, and hatched an audacious plot. So daring was it that

it made their grotesque and stunted little bodies tremble as they

thought of it, and their gnarled feet shook in their shoes.

This plot involved nothing less than the theft of the Golden Key. The

symbol of royalty was to be taken to the mountain top and flung far away

outside the boundaries of Fairydom, and a republic proclaimed and

acclaimed. A monarchy could no longer be possible.

Meanwhile the guileless fairies, recking nothing of this, and rejoicing

in what they thought to be the discomfiture of their adversaries, chose

the popular Crown Princess for the succession, and began with much pomp

and circumstance the ceremony of investing her with the Golden Key.

They had proceeded up to a certain point when, to their horror and

amazement, on opening the treasure chamber to bear the symbol in solemn

procession upon a velvet cushion, as the law demanded, they discovered

that _the Golden Key was gone_!

[Illustration: _Lay low, and hatched an audacious plot_]

* * * * *

Cedric suddenly guessed that he possessed the key to Fairyland. For he

found himself in a sun-bathed valley with clouds of rainbow hues in the

azure sky above. In the distance he beheld a rippling lake of golden

water, on the borders of which stood a palace made of gems gathered from

the circling mountains which stood as sentinels around the valley. Down

these mountains meandered little golden rills that fed the lake. Nothing

stirred but gaily coloured birds, which fluttered amongst the blossoming

fruit trees and the rich and dainty flowers.

All around the lake, as though from nowhere, sprang crowds of fairies,

gnomes, pixies, and sprites; they were landing from the tiny

flower-decked craft, forming processions, hurrying in and out of the

palace--presenting to Cedric's astonished gaze a scene of wonderful

animation and pretty bustle. Great preparations were apparently

proceeding.

After a time they gathered together in waiting crowds, which stretched

a long distance on either side of the approach to the shimmering

edifice, and the words came to him with curious distinctness--

"Hail! Cedric, King of Fairyland!"

"K-K-King of Fairyland!" stammered the boy in bewilderment. "Am I King

of Fairyland? You're only making fun--I've only been flying my kite: I

can't be a king."

"Of course your young Majesty has got the key?" remarked a funny little

old man at his elbow.

"Yes," replied Cedric, starting at the suddenness of the answer to his

question, but vastly surprised, and amused too, at the quaint way in

which he was addressed.

"Very well, then. Of course we all know you must have found it, or you

couldn't be here. I'd far rather you had it than I; experience has

taught me that much. Good morning, young gentleman; may it bring you

more pleasure than it brought me," and with a chuckle the little old man

bowed himself away.

Cedric had no time to think, for a gorgeous equipage stopped just in

front of him. The door flew open; the boy, guessing what was expected of

him, quickly stepped inside, and, wondering at this grandeur, the new

King of Fairyland was borne swiftly through the serried ranks of his

bowing subjects to the doors of his magnificent palace. Soldiers

presented arms, a national air was played on lutes and harps, and Cedric

passed through the gates, followed by as many of the populace as had

tickets of admission to witness the most wonderful coronation you never

saw.

[Illustration: "_Of course your young Majesty has got the key?_"]

PART II

In the throne-room, on a throne of diamonds, Cedric sat in royal robes,

and on his head was a golden crown, which had been taken, as being about

his size, from the dome of the Crown Palace. Grouped near him were the

aristocracy of Fairyland--prominent among them the Crown Princess, and

her great friend and neighbour, the Queen of Gossamerland, both young,

both beautiful, and both unmarried.

When the ceremony was over, and the shout, "Hail! Cedric, King of

Fairyland!" echoed once more, the boy, prompted by the Lord High

Chamberlain, rose and bowed his delighted acknowledgments, while the

crowds outside cheered for all they were worth. He kept standing, in

order to receive the general homage, with the quiet confidence of one

who had been used to that sort of thing every day of his life.

Little did he guess that the populace of Fairyland, who were acclaiming

him, down to the tiniest sprite, were far from pleased to have a mortal

on their throne--that the gnomes were plotting, _with_ the fairies this

time, to depose him, for the key had come back to their land, and was

never likely to be stolen again. They had all put their heads together

how to make Cedric part with it of his own free will, according to law,

and they knew they had to accomplish their end by their wits, as no

other means held good. It was their desire now to elect their ruler by

putting the matter to the country to vote, and thus please both parties.

The gnomes, who had had time to consider it, were dumbfounded at their

stupidity in having thrown the key into Mortal-land, and they regretted

it when it was too late.

A fair lady, wearing a tiny crown, stepped forward and curtsied low

before her monarch. It was the Crown Princess. Cedric wanted to detain

her; but it wasn't etiquette, and she smiled to herself as she swept

past with her maids of honour. She was followed by her dark friend, who

kissed Cedric's hand. Her face was more beautiful than any he had ever

beheld. In obedience to his wish that she should speak to him, the

little Queen of Gossamerland smiled and said--

"Sire, I have often heard of mortals, but never saw one before. It is

said that some of them never dream of coming to our country, that others

often do, but they never come really, you know. Your Majesty is the

very first. Will you graciously tell me how it feels?"

Cedric laughed, and coughed nervously, and replied that "it felt very

pleasant and comfor'ble."

She turned her head as she withdrew, and whispered anxiously--

"_Do not part with the Golden Key_, as you value your throne."

The words, and still more the impressive and forceful manner, of the

dazzling little Queen puzzled him. He determined, nevertheless, to

follow advice so fatefully given, but he couldn't help pondering over

it; and his face was graver as he bowed to the lords and ladies and

high-born gnomes who had the honour of introduction.

Escorted by the whole of the brilliant company, King Cedric left his

palace in order formally "to do some good deed"--which was a part of the

ancient ceremonial. He was to open a new institution for fairies who had

lost their arts and crafts and livelihoods too. When they arrived at the

building it was announced that the key which was to have been presented

to him was not forthcoming. Consternation, real or assumed--(_Cedric_

didn't believe in it)--followed on the strange declaration of those who

were responsible for the carelessness. Amid profuse apologies, the Lord

High Chamberlain begged the King that he would use the Golden

Key--which, being a master key, could of course take the place of any

other.

Acting on the advice given him, and alive to the evident importance of

retaining the key (which was also the key to his position), Cedric

politely and graciously refused: at which there was considerable

sensation. Arguments and persuasion were in vain, but at last he yielded

to the entreaties of those needy fairies who badly wanted their

institution. Himself he inserted the key, which was found to fit, as was

to be expected. But when he wanted to withdraw it, it had stuck, and was

immovable--the lock had been carefully arranged that it should be so.

Triumph and amusement were on every face except his.

"I have been betrayed," muttered Cedric, and he wondered what on

Fairyland he should do next. There was silence--a breathless

interval--during which the boy never relaxed hold on his treasured

possession.

"Cut away the lock!" he commanded. At this order the people murmured

loudly, but soon fell into silence; for they were bound by their

constitution to obey their monarch. In a few moments the Golden Key was

again safe in Cedric's pocket, and mistrust was in his heart, as it has

been in that of nearly every king who ever reigned.

The coronation ceremony was over, and the company had dispersed, so

Cedric found himself at liberty to saunter forth. He hadn't proceeded

more than a few yards in the brilliant landscape when a Rabbit--renowned

for his white gloves--bounded up to him and humbly begged it might be

his Majesty's pleasure to receive some famous members of Animal

Fairyland who were anxious to render homage. Cedric replied royally with

a dignified nod, and followed the creature as it led the way to a

clearing in a forest close by. Here, explained the Rabbit, the animals

were allowed full liberty to say what they pleased--but beyond the

boundaries they were only able to make strange noises which their own

families alone could understand: it was thus that the secrets of

Fairyland were kept from the world outside.

Upon a throne made from a cutting of the famous beanstalk grown for the

original Jack King Cedric seated himself, and awaited events.

He hadn't long to wait, for a Fox trotted up and bade him welcome to

Animal Fairyland. Wonderfully tactful for his age, Cedric told the Fox

that he recognised him, having read about him in Grimm's tales, and

remarked--

"You were so good, Mr. Fox, to the poor horse!"

At which the Fox sniggered shyly and withdrew. This pleasing

reminiscence gave unbounded satisfaction to the various animals that had

quickly gathered around.

Cedric's inquiry of the Wolf as to his digestion after that little

flirtation with Red Riding Hood's grandmother was also considered

prodigiously appropriate, and was greeted with cordial appreciation. His

quick recognition, too, of the Three Bears added greatly to his

popularity, but he wasn't so happy in his remark to a stately Swan who

came up and bowed.

"You're glad to have got rid of those ducks, I s'pose?" he observed.

"And pray, sire, where did you hear about that? It's a chapter of my

early history I hoped had never got about!"

"Oh, I have read all about the Ugly Duckling!" replied Cedric, persuaded

that the information would fill the Swan with pride.

"Why, you don't mean to say--! Do you--do you tell me that--" screamed

the Swan furiously, almost choked with indignation, and it could not

finish its sentences. Then in a quieter, but still in an angry, voice,

it continued: "To think of it! Why, I plumed myself on its having been

kept out of print! So that family scandal has got round after all!" And

in defiance of all etiquette, the swan turned tail and waddled off.

"The audience is over!" cried Cedric indignantly.

Whereupon the deputation hastily withdrew.

"Guide, sire?" inquired a gnome, suddenly presenting himself and going

down on one knee. "Guide to the fairy ring?"

"Yes, please," and he followed him to where a number of peacocks stood

on guard with their tails magnificently spread.

"Have you twopence?" asked the guide anxiously.

"I'm not sure," answered Cedric, fumbling in his pocket.

"If not, I'm afraid you can't be let in, sire." The gnome was looking

afraid that the king might not fall, after all, into the little trap he

was preparing.

"Not let me in? Can't I order myself through?"

"No 'paper' allowed! You can only be let in by paying the entrance fee."

"I never heard of a king paying twopence to go in anywhere," said

Cedric, drawing himself up. He was not unreasonable, he felt, but he was

a little hurt in his dignity as sovereign.

"I'm afraid your Majesty can't go against the Office of Works."

"S'pose I ordered the peacocks to be removed," said Cedric, growing hot

at the undignified position of a monarch unable to produce the price of

a Bath bun; "s'pose I ordered their necks to be wrung, or something?"

"It would be deplorably irregular and excessively unconstitutional."

Cedric was taken at a disadvantage by the length of the words; but a

lucky discovery relieved him.

"Here, I've got four ha'pennies. But I call it mean that I, of all

people, shouldn't be allowed in free."

"It's simply to show the person is well off, and to keep the place

select--it's the same for all. In the case of royalty the amount is

returned in cash at the end of the performance."

Cedric entered alone, and found the fairy ring far beyond anything he

could have dreamed of. Thousands of little fairies, wearing cunning

arrangements of petals from the fruit blossoms, had joined hands and

were dancing round joyously, raising tiny clouds of yellow dust, which

enveloped them as with a golden mist. As he came in sight they burst

into song, and manoeuvring cleverly until he was in their midst, they

showed what they could do in grace of movement and harmony of sound,

till, quite enchanted, he felt he could remain there for ever.

"Go on! go on!" he shouted, clapping his hands with delight, for the

little crew had come to a standstill.

A pixie detached himself, and kneeling, begged his Majesty to give him

the Golden Key.

"What for?" asked Cedric, surprised.

"To wind up the proceedings," came the reply of the fairies, who had

eagerly drawn near.

"Can't," said Cedric.

"_Do!_" said the prettiest of the fairies in chorus.

Hardly knowing what he was about, so much did he want to see the

entrancing dance all over again, he held out the key to the applicant;

but, noticing a peculiar gleam dart from the pixie's eyes, he quickly

snatched it back again and replaced it in his pocket, and coming to

himself found that the peacocks were once more between him and the fairy

ring; that twopence was in his hand, and there was no one at all about.

Then he realised how narrow his escape had been. "Uneasy lies the head

that wears a crown." Cedric knew that Shakespeare had written that; but

he had never expected to learn the truth of it from experience.

He lay on the grass, and pondered what he had better do in the trying

political situation. "What's the use of being King of Fairyland if I

have to be plotted against every hour of the day?" muttered Cedric

disconsolately.

"No use at all."

They were the soft tones of the little Queen of Gossamerland. She sat

down next to him and put her tiny hand on his arm.

"What's to be done, then?"

"It's very simple," she rejoined. "Give me the Golden Key. You'll be

king no longer, but you'll have no responsibilities or anxieties."

"That won't be much fun for me," replied Cedric. "Besides, what will you

do with it?"

"The right thing. I'll give it to the Crown Princess, the rightful heir.

That will save the country a general election, and fairy tranquillity

will reign once more."

"Why did you warn me not to part with it? And now you ask me for it!"

"I wanted to get it myself as soon as you would give it up, so that I

might deliver it to my dear friend, who will become a queen like me.

Then she can choose her husband; and, after being her bridesmaid, I

suppose I shall be married too."

"Will you marry me?" asked Cedric bluntly.

"Why, you'd have to live on honey!" replied the Gossamer Queen, with a

smile, half sweet, half malicious. Cedric turned it over in his mind,

but not for long.

"Give me the key," she begged coaxingly.

"Yes--but," argued the boy, "it's worth a lot, you know: I wouldn't so

much mind swopping it; but----"

The Queen of Gossamerland, tired of wasting time, put out her hand so

prettily, and pursed up her lips so sweetly and daintily, that he _did_

give her the Golden Key, and she gave a kiss as a receipt. Then she said

that the Office of Works would send for the crown, and flitted away.

Cedric prepared to remove his crown, with a sigh to think he had no

longer any right to it, but first he ran to the stream that slowly

floated by, and took a good look at himself. He smiled with pride. "I

must say," he remarked confidentially to himself, "I really do look

every inch a king! But, after all, I couldn't go to school with this

on--the fellows would be sure to notice it." He started at the bare

idea, and laid down the crown with a feeling of "good riddance" as

profound and grateful as ever King James II. could have experienced. He

felt no other pang than that of dignity too quickly swept away.

He placed it on the grass, confident that the Gossamer Queen would send

for it at once, and he began to think of his own return. "Now to find

that door!" he exclaimed, and looked about him to ask the way. The

golden lake, the glittering palace, the sentry of mountains--all were

there; but no living being was in sight.

"Queer place, _I_ call it," said Cedric to himself. "No cake shops, only

honey, and no policemen to tell the way." He wandered on in the hope of

coming sooner or later, somehow and somewhere, to the door.

After a time he met the funny little old man who had accosted him on his

arrival. He was gazing hard at the boy, looking right through him as

though he were not there.

"Will you kindly show me the door?" said Cedric eagerly.

"Turn you out, do you mean?" asked ex-King the First.

"I want to turn myself out, if I can," replied Cedric.

"Already? Good morning, young gentleman, ex-King the Second. There's a

pair of us."

"Please show me the door."

"When is a door not a-jar?" asked the out-o'-work sovereign.

"Don't ask me riddles. Show me the door!" ordered Cedric in his best

royal-command manner, and looked so threatening that the little old man

quickly pointed over his shoulder.

Cedric walked off in that direction without a word, and to his joy he

discovered the door just a little way in front of him.

"Thank goodness!" he exclaimed, as he ran up to it--and then he suddenly

realised that he no longer possessed the Golden Key with which to open

it. How was he to escape? He turned and looked back at what now was

an immeasurable distance--so very far away did it seem--and there was

once more bustling activity about the palace. Another Coronation

ceremony was beginning all over again.

[Illustration: "_I really do look every inch a king!_"]

The boy flung himself against the door, and banged and kicked at it with

all his might. It was of no use.

"Oh, the key, the key!" he cried. "If they would only spare it from

their silly triumphing for a moment, and let me out!"

He put his eye to the keyhole, and with longing gaze he saw his kite on

the spot he had left it, with its lazy tail gently stirred by the

breeze.

Once more he looked back, despairing of help; the same animated fairy

scene met his gaze--all so indifferent to his helplessness. Grasping the

handle of the door in his hand he shook it in desperation.

Then he remembered. He quietly turned the handle, and walked out!

The sea breeze blew freshly as Cedric freed his kite from the bush, and

when he looked back there was Land's End just as he had seen it before.

"And Fairyland's end, too," he muttered; for all trace of the iron door

had disappeared after he passed through. He stared in astonishment, and

couldn't make it out; and the adventure remained a mystery all the days

of his life.

ROSELLA

"Rosella!"

"Yes, Mother?" And a dark-eyed little girl looked down over the

banisters into the hall.

"I want you to get ready quickly and go to the Moat House, and persuade

Grandfather to come back with you this afternoon instead of waiting

until the evening."

"But if he invites me to tea with him?"

"Don't stay, dearie. I want you back before dusk, and it gets dark so

soon now; and you must help me to tie the crackers on the

Christmas-tree. It's still sunny, so make haste."

In a few minutes the child was tripping downstairs, smart and cosy in

her red coat, hat, and muff, with all the importance of her nine years.

"Go the shortest way--you know; keep to the path across the moor,"

continued her mother, "or you might fall over bits of rock under the

snow."

"Do you know, Mother, I always wonder, when there's snow, where all the

grass is and what's underneath? All killed by the freeze?"

"Oh no. The snow keeps everything nice and warm," replied her mother

with a kiss.

Davis, the portly butler, advanced and opened the front door.

"Being _above_ the snow doesn't keep _me_ nice and warm, Mother," called

back Rosella as she ran laughing down the steps into the icy north wind,

which blew her dark hair out to its full length and heightened the warm

colour in her cheeks.

"Make haste, and you'll be there in half-an-hour." Mrs. Silverton

returned to her boudoir, and standing at the bow-window followed with

loving eyes the graceful little red figure, until at a bend in the road

it turned, gaily waved a farewell, and was lost to sight.

When Rosella reached the moor the high wind was against her, blowing her

frock between her knees and making her eyes water. "This way will be

very difficult and unpleasant," she thought to herself. "I'd far rather

go round by the hill, and then, too, I could see if Grandfather has got

the Snow Castle on the top finished and ready for to-morrow--I forgot

about that when Mother said to go across the moor. I should so like to

see it--I wonder if I might!"

She stood irresolute for a moment, then left the straight path and

started running, in order to save time, in the other direction: thus

making for the hill which she intended to climb.

The sun became obscured, and what was worse, down from the leaden yellow

sky tiny snowflakes began to flutter as though in play, rapidly

increasing in size and volume until, as if by magic, Rosella found

herself enveloped in a blinding snowstorm that obscured the landscape,

and decided her to return home. But returning home was not so easy as

turning herself round, and she soon had the growing conviction that no

matter which way she turned she was lost, utterly lost: for all that she

could see was that she no longer seemed to be dressed in red, but was

thickly coated in white.

Twice she tripped over the uneven ground, but she stumbled along

hopefully and bravely, and even tried to sing, only the snowflakes got

into her mouth and made her shut it up tight.

Rosella had no idea where she was, and she felt very tired. How she

wished now she had gone straight forward! There would have been no

difficulty about that. By good luck she came close up to a large piece

of overhanging rock; she did not remember ever seeing it before, so she

was more than ever confused as to the whereabouts of the hill or of

anything; but it was good for shelter. She placed her muff in a niche

above her head, and sat down to rest awhile and consider what she had

best do.

The wind howled around her only partially sheltered retreat, and

myriads of snowflakes, drifting in, fell softly about her, creeping

closer and closer, covering her boots, lying thickly on her frock, on

her shoulders, drifting, too, into her eyes and making them blink, and

powdering her hair with white. And she felt too cold to think--too cold

to move.

* * * * *

After a while Rosella exclaimed: "This won't do. I must get up from

here. It's such a dreadfully cold place!" And she determined to try and

go on, if only to keep herself warm. So she shook herself, took down her

muff, and went forth.

It was snowing as much as ever, but Rosella found that the ground was no

longer flat. She was on the hillside, and as she climbed she wondered

anxiously how she should know which side to come down, once she was on

the top, in order to find the Moat House. Then she smiled as it occurred

to her how much she must now look like the tiny, red-hooded, toy figure

in the glass paper weight at home which showed itself enveloped in a

miniature snowstorm when it was shaken. She plodded on higher and

higher.

The weather was clearing when Rosella stood on the summit of the hill,

and she was lost in admiration as she gazed at the largest, grandest

Snow Castle she could never have imagined. Before it, too, stood a Snow

Man splendidly proportioned and set up. To her intense astonishment, as

she timidly approached he bowed politely.

Rosella curtsied instinctively, then laughed as she went round to see

where he had broken. But he wasn't broken at all, for he turned too,

faced her, and said--

"I need hardly introduce myself, Rosella. I presume you recognise King

Frost when you meet him in any guise. You wished to see my Castle--and

gave yourself a polite invitation. You are welcome!"

She was so taken aback with the suddenness of all this that she could

find no words for reply. So she made another, much lower, curtsey, which

she knew to be correct in the presence of Royalty, then she took his

proffered arm. And the tall white figure and the little white figure

mounted the white steps, went through the massive gateway, and proceeded

down a long, narrow passage lighted with a ruddy glow from the high

windows, which were glazed with something red, transparent, and

glistening. It was much warmer here, and Rosella noticed that the snow

had melted from her clothes, and that her companion also appeared to be

dressed in red. His white face with its white beard and white hair wore

quite a jovial air, and on top of it was set a crown of carved ice that

reminded her of their chandelier in the drawing-room.

He did the honours by offering her some snow broth, which she declined.

Then she thought she ought to say something, so she remarked, with a

touch of family pride--

"I had no idea that Grandfather had built such a fine place as this."

"_I_ think the credit is entirely mine," protested her companion with an

amused chuckle. "_I_ provide the material, you see, or there would have

been no 'fine place' at all. See my point?"

"Yes, your Majesty," she assented, for she knew it wasn't polite to

argue--especially with a royal personage.

"This way!" he exclaimed, and led her down another passage on the right,

and halted to push open a swing door of ice a little way, and genially

patted her on the cheek--which was kindly meant no doubt, but his touch

nipped her with cold so that she shivered.

"I shall be on guard outside. If you want me, call me!" Almost as soon

as she heard the words the heavy door swung to behind her, and she found

herself alone in a great, white, glistening hall with high arches open

to the air. Evidently it was scarcely snowing now, for only little

isolated flakes came fluttering in. But in their falling they changed

into little shadowy girls and boys in white, who danced playfully around

her, and their cold white draperies swept lightly about her face,

reminding her of the blinding snowstorm she had passed through. But she

only wanted to get away to her grandfather now.

Rosella sheltered her face with her muff and ran the gauntlet of the

persistent little snowflakes. In a corner she espied a spiral staircase

which seemed to lead up into one of the battlemented towers she had

noticed outside, and she imagined it a way of escape, so up she ran. The

steps were very slippery, but she got up to the top, where, through a

narrow loophole, she saw King Frost down below, standing there just as

she first saw him when she thought him only a Snow Man. More anxious

than ever to know how to get to her grandfather, she called out--

"Your Majesty!" and repeated loudly the two words over and over again,

for he either would not or could not hear her. And what was very

curious, there was an echo which called back "Rosella! Rosella!" in the

same anxious tone.

Talking was clearly of no use; she must do something. So she tried to

squeeze her muff through the aperture in order to drop it on his head

and attract his attention--but it would not go through. It stuck there

and closed out her view. Try as she would she could not release it; and

with a gulp in her throat she realised she would have to leave it. Her

hands grew terribly cold without it, and it was too draughty to remain

there.

From the landing on which she stood steps led up higher, so she

proceeded to explore, and found herself in an octagonal turret chamber.

"I suppose it serves me right, and I _am_ lost, _and_ there's no one to

help me!" sighed Rosella.

"Oh yes there is!"

"Whose voice is that?" she asked. She could see no one--but at the same

moment a sunbeam pierced through an aperture, pointed straight at what

appeared to be a lift behind a slender column, and then faded away. It

_was_ a lift, made of ice and snow, as was everything else in the

Castle. Rosella entered it and took a seat. The lift at once began

gently and slowly to go down, down, first into the foundations of the

Castle, and then into the interior of the hill right down under the

snow, till it stopped in a Grotto lined with cobwebs and suffused with a

mysterious green light. There was a soft, singing sound, as though made

by the wind. In front was a frozen lake, and the ice of it was green

from the same strange light.

"I must try and find my way to Grandfather," said Rosella vaguely as

she wandered about the Grotto, looking about her for a way out.

* * * * *

Mrs. Silverton kept glancing anxiously at the clock and at the

snowstorm. Davis entered. "Madam," said he, with an usually solemn face,

"Mr. Silverton has telephoned again from the Moat House that Miss

Rosella hasn't arrived."

"Then she must have lost her way!" exclaimed her mother, now thoroughly

alarmed. "Though I don't see how she could, keeping straight across the

moor to the Moat House gate at the end of the path. We must set out,

Davis, and find her."

"Difficult this weather, Madam, if our young lady is lost on the moor."

"Is it still so bad?"

"The storm's not so thick as it was. I'll go immediately. There's no

time to be lost, to my thinking, Madam."

"Yes, we'll go at once, Davis."

Mrs. Silverton, pale with anxiety, sent other messengers in various

directions, and then started off herself. On the moor she met another

search party headed by old Mr. Silverton and his faithful collie dog.

And the moor rang with anxious cries of "Rosella! Rosella!" uttered by

whitened shadowy figures that looked like phantoms in the falling snow.

* * * * *

"I _must_ try and find my way to Grandfather," repeated Rosella

falteringly, realising that she didn't know in the least how to proceed.

She never had a notion that a Snow Castle was so intricate inside, with

a hall, a lift, a grotto, and things; indeed, she had always imagined

for no particular reason that it had no inside at all; "but of course,"

she now argued, "if it has an outside it _must_ have an inside, or it

wouldn't be an outside." But it was much more startling when she looked

up and found that she was by no means alone: the cobwebs were all

inhabited. Inhabited--not by ugly spiders, but by the wee-est little

baby-fairies with the wee-est gossamer wings, swaying in their cobweb

hammocks in all attitudes, fast asleep, soothed by the lullaby hummed by

the wind.

"This must be where they are bred!" cried Rosella, in an ecstasy of

admiration and delight.

"This is Fairy Spring's nursery," explained a beautiful Sprite,

appearing suddenly at her elbow like a little bright sunbeam. "King

Frost is the ground landlord, you know, and allows all her young things

to sleep here and keep warm."

"And who are you, please?" inquired the Sprite's young visitor.

"I am Love of Goodwill, and my father's name is Christmas."

"I know you by name quite well, and am so glad to see you. Perhaps you

would kindly help me to find my way?"

"If you keep on going to the right, when you see the snowdrops' mother,

there you will find your landmark."

"Oh, do please tell me more clearly. What did you say? Tell me where

I"--but Rosella was again alone in the green grotto with the sleeping

baby-fairies in their swaying hammocks, and the soft music of the wind.

"Surely there can't be any grown-up snowdrops at Christmas--it's too

early!--and I shall be losing my way for weeks!" continued Rosella.

Nevertheless, she kept on turning to the right through upward passages

first of rock, then of sand, in which were embedded deep growing roots,

then of soil with its minerals, broken up leaves, and corpses of insects

which she didn't like at all; then through a passage lined with true red

soil, where little grubs were lying fast asleep in their nests.

"You ugly grubby little things!" remarked Rosella as she passed them.

"They are only lying low at present. They will be lovely Painted Ladies

and visit the court of Fairy Spring," replied Love of Goodwill, hovering

again at her side. "And look! There are the baby snowdrops asleep in

their earthy cots. They, too, will awake soon and get up. I helped their

mother to get up as she was in such a hurry to see the world. I'm

afraid she will have got nipped by King Frost for her impatience.

Farewell--I must go and see what is happening."

Rosella followed the sunbeam--into which the Sprite had vanished--and at

once felt the keen air blowing on her face, and knew she was above

ground once more. Everything was all white again. She sat down upon a

piece of rock to rest, and noticed the sunbeam pointing straight at a

little woe-begone snowdrop sticking up out of the snow before her. And

to her joy the Snow Man was close by calling "Rosella! Rosella!" in the

echo's anxious tone she had heard before--so he must have wanted her

then, badly.

"Yes, your Majesty!" she murmured.

He bent over her kindly. "There, little lady," he continued, "drink some

of this now!" and something cold yet stinging was poured gently down her

throat.

"Thank you, your Majesty. I did feel tired and queer, but your snow

broth has made me all right." She said it quite gratefully. Then her

eyes opened wide and she cried in amazement--

"Grandfather! Why it's _you_! You were the Snow Man all the time! And

look! there's my muff up there that I left in the wall!"

"But for that sticking up we might never have found our little

treasure," replied old Mr. Silverton. He picked her up and, holding her

aloft, showed her to her anxious mother, who came hurrying on the scene.

"Don't shiver so, dearie," exclaimed Mrs. Silverton, passionately

embracing the child, as hot tears dropped on her daughter's face. "You

must be perished with cold, but this nice sunshine which has come out

now will do you good."

"I didn't feel cold. It was quite nice and warm under the snow as you

said, Mother--and so wonderful!"

Davis carried her home in triumph at the head of the procession; and

after precautionary remedies had been taken, Rosella sat cosily tucked

up in the big arm-chair in front of the huge log fire, thinking over all

she had seen. Of course she confessed to her temptation to go astray,

and was readily forgiven. Then, as Mr. Silverton insisted he had never

in his life been any one else but himself, Rosella gaily recounted her

meeting with the Snow Man at his Snow Castle. "And King Frost said,

Grandfather," concluded Rosella, "that the credit of the Castle was his

for providing the snow and not yours."

"Bless my soul!" cried old Mr. Silverton. "And he was right there,

because I've had nothing to do with any Snow Castle or any Snow

Man--there was some talk, but nothing came of it."

"But I was King Frost's visitor there, don't you see," insisted Rosella,

smiling. "So I know that's only one of your jokes, Grandfather."

He smiled too and wiped his spectacles.

The next morning Rosella volunteered to fetch her grandfather and

introduce him to King Frost. So the two climbed the hill. But no vestige

of Snow Castle or Snow Man was there.

"There, you see!" said her grandfather, laughing, as he genially patted

her on the cheek. How cold his hand felt! It nipped her with cold, so

that she shivered. Yet the weather had changed, and it was more like a

sunny day in spring than in midwinter.

She left old Mr. Silverton at his gate, and he assured her with a kiss

that he wasn't a bit disappointed at the wonderful disappearance, but

that it was all certainly a very remarkable affair indeed.

Rosella thought so too. Then she turned and walked thoughtfully home.

THE CUCKOO THAT LIVED IN THE CLOCK-HOUSE

It was rather a ramshackle, badly-built wooden house, in which the

Cuckoo lived. Outside it looked smart enough, but inside, repairs were

badly needed. It had been handed down from father to son, and over the

front door, which was at the top of the house, stood a beautifully

carved statue of their ancestor, Sir Cuckoo de Cuckoo.

The Clock-House was situated not far from the Dolls' House, backed by a

flowery wall in a small department of Nursery Land ruled over by Robert

and Lucy. Lucy was ground landlady of the Clock-House, and it was her

daily privilege to wind up its affairs.

No one ever knocked at the Cuckoo's front door, because it had no

number; there was a round dozen of numbers in the immediate

neighbourhood. The pendulum, whose tongue never ceased to wag once it

was wound up, remarked, that two firm hands were required to keep things

in order. As to the chains, they regularly got weighed down under the

strain of responsibility, and a heavy weight it was.

So, as one could not summon the Cuckoo at will, the only thing to do was

to wait and see it when it chose to appear, and then--as likely as not,

if nobody was about--Robert would seize the opportunity to take

pot-shots at it with his pea-shooter. So far he had invariably missed.

Sometimes it kept an appointment with him punctually at the hour,

sometimes it didn't. Occasionally, it came out at odd times, and then

remained indoors altogether. When that happened for a more than usually

long period, it was sure to be because the poor Cuckoo felt indisposed

in its bellows; and when it became apparent that something had gone

wrong with the inmate of the Clock-House, an entrance had to be effected

by the back door and a dose of oil administered. Whereupon the front

door would fly open and the Cuckoo appear again on the threshold--it

never ventured further--bow to the multitude, or to empty space, and

pipe "Cuc--koo!" just as many times as it felt inclined at the moment.

One fine afternoon in spring, when the Cuckoo came out punctually, and

went through its performance of three bows with a Cuckoo call after each

salutation, there happened to be a fresh inmate all alone in the

nursery. This was Tabiatha, the new kitten, cosily reposing in her new

basket under the table. "Aha! Poultry!" mewed Tabiatha, lying low,

opening a lazy but watchful eye, and gazing upwards. "Bless my tail!

You're a tender morsel, I'll be bound--small, but a tit-bit!" So thought

the kitten, with an increasing feeling of longing in the chest. It had

sounded to Tabiatha like an echo of the call she had heard so recently

in the lane near the old farm at home.

"I don't want to pop out any more!" said the Cuckoo after re-entering

the Clock-House. "I'm bored to tears!" And it settled down in a corner

and looked very melancholy. "What with that horrid boy, Robert, lurking

about--and now a kitten of all things! Why, life's not worth the living!

If ever I do pop out again, I should like to pop out for good and

all--stretch my wings and fly away, right away, and see something of the

world!"

"Work! That's the cure for all woes!" solemnly ticked the pendulum.

"Look at me, I'm always at it, with a good swinging stride." The hands

didn't explain their views--they were keeping far apart, and were not on

speaking terms. "Every one is expected to do his duty," urged the

pendulum.

"That was only meant for one day--not morning, noon, and night," argued

the Cuckoo. "It's all very well for a wagtail like you--but for a Cuckoo

with a soul above it--especially with a fine, well-trained voice!"

"Every one must do his duty at all times. Yes, look at me--but I fear

you can't see me. Do you follow me?" asked the pendulum jokingly.

Getting no reply, it ticked-tacked on, until the Cuckoo felt quite

distracted.

* * * * *

"Listen to me, children," said their mother, entering the nursery, when

playtime had begun; "Nurse has gone to lie down. She isn't very well

this afternoon. So at four o'clock put everything away neatly; then make

yourselves tidy, and come downstairs, where you may have tea with me."

Robert and Lucy said they were sorry for Nurse, but they smiled, and

hopped about with delight at the treat of tea downstairs. They promised

to do as they were told, and with muffled footsteps hurried on the

landing to open the gate and let their mother out of their domain, and

quietly closed it to keep themselves in. Then they settled down in the

nursery to "Loto;" but as Lucy always won, Robert tired of it. Card

houses didn't answer either, because it amused Robert not to build them,

but to shake the table when Lucy's structures were in course of

erection.

Their mother, busily writing in the drawing-room, began to wonder why

the children didn't come downstairs; and tea was just being brought in,

when suddenly screams and cries were heard issuing from the nursery, and

she rushed upstairs in alarm.

There she found the nursery littered with things, chairs in unusual

places, some overturned, and Lucy lying on the floor crying, with a cut

on her lip, which was bleeding. Robert had both stockings torn, and was

ruefully rubbing his knees. The little girl was more frightened than

hurt.

"Whatever has happened, Robert?" exclaimed their mother as she helped

Lucy to her feet, and comforted her.

"I was hunting," he began to explain, "and she was the gazelle, and I

was chasing her from rock to rock----"

"Jumping from the table on to the chairs and back again," added Lucy in

further explanation, "and we both tumbled down!"

"Serve you both right for being so disobedient as to jump on the

furniture," replied their mother, with placid satisfaction that matters

were no worse. "You ought to have been all tidied up, and downstairs by

now."

"It isn't time yet, surely, Mother!" The three turned instinctively

towards the Cuckoo clock. It had stopped at three minutes to four.

"There now, Lucy, you silly!" cried her brother; "if you hadn't

forgotten to wind it up, we shouldn't have had that beastly tumble, and

shouldn't have been late for tea."

"Come, dears, quickly, and I'll help make you ready," said their mother;

and they left the nursery together.

* * * * *

During the excitement Tabiatha had remained unnoticed in her basket

under the table, glad in all the turmoil to be peaceful and forgotten.

She came out, stretched herself lazily, and soon began to gambol about

the room. The clock chain, lying loosely on the ground, attracted her

attention. She crouched, then leapt at one bound upon it, backed a

little, touched it with her paw, lay on her side, and played with the

bright links with all four paws and much enjoyment. With a sudden

movement she righted herself--made a spring upwards, missed the chain

and fell without hurt. Liking this novel game, she leapt higher next

time, and alighted on a cushioned chair, scratched her way up, jumped on

to a bookcase, and then on to an empty shelf. There was the chain within

easy reach. Putting out her paw, it caught instead in a ring she hadn't

noticed. To disentangle it she reached over, lost her foothold, and,

still caught in the ring, found that the rattling chain was moving

downwards with her weight until it deposited her gently on the ground,

greatly to her surprise. Again she scrambled up the furniture in the

same way. Her paw was now on both chains. Suddenly something swung

backwards and forwards--

Tic--tac!

Tabiatha was for the moment dismayed, and, arching her back, she stood

rooted to the spot.

Tic--tac!

It came unpleasantly close to her, nearly touching her nose each time,

but she never budged an inch. Whr-r-r-r-r!

Cuc--koo! Cuc--koo! Cuc--koo! Cuc----

Tabiatha, rising to the occasion, and quick to seize an opportunity or

anything else, took her last and only chance. She seized the poultry

with both paws--Crack! Snap! She lost her balance and fell down, down,

on to the cushioned chair. The Cuckoo flew into the air, alighted on

Tabiatha's back, and bounded on to the ground. Tabiatha forgot at once

her escape from breaking her neck, sprang after the Cuckoo lying there,

turned it over, paused, sniffed, found to her surprise that it was not

good to eat, that it hadn't even feathers, and was only made of wood,

turned it over again, and began tapping it and pouncing on it until,

suddenly forgetting all about it, she cantered away sideways with her

tail curling in the air. She jumped into her basket, rolled herself up,

soon purred herself fast asleep, and looked the very picture of helpless

innocence.

The Cuckoo, out in the world at last, having recovered from its first

alarm at the useless stiffness of its wings, waited for something to

happen. As nothing did happen, it thought the world a very dull and

stupid place, and concluded that, after all, work was better than lying

there helpless, idle, motionless, and ridiculous. What was the use of

its trained voice now? It couldn't articulate a sound even to summon

help. It had no idea of the time, but the sun was shining brightly when

at last it found itself carefully lifted and placed on a higher level.

* * * * *

When Lucy entered the nursery that morning, soon after Robert, he

exclaimed--

"I say, Lucy! There's something fresh for breakfast. Look on your

plate!"

"Oh, my poor Cuckoo!" she cried in distress. "You've shot it at last.

You bad boy--I shan't love you ever any more!"

But she did love him at once again, for it was a fact that no one knew

how ever the Cuckoo came to be lying on the floor in the remote corner

where Nurse had picked it up. The cushioned chair was in its place

again--a long way off the clock. Every one was mystified, and could not

imagine how it had happened. But Tabiatha knew all about it, though you

would never have guessed it from her round, innocent eyes as she sat

licking first one velvety paw, and then the other velvety paw, as though

she were washing them of any share in the mischief.

When the Clock-House was spring-cleaned, and the Cuckoo duly set there

on its legs again, it formed the firm determination to remain at its

post in the future, and, with its Clock-House in order, it worked ever

after with regularity and good humour just like one o'clock.

"Cuc--koo!" Bow, click.

CHRISTMAS AT THE COURT OF KING JORUM

The great evening had come, and every one in Cosmopolis Castle was agog

with excitement. Eight months before, the Monarch had by Royal Herald

Extraordinary announced his intention of making known his decision on

Christmas Eve. And Christmas Eve had come. No wonder every one was agog

with excitement, because King Jorum was at last going to announce which

of the lovely ladies of the Court should be raised to the position of

the late Queen, his defunct consort. She, poor soul, had possessed

neither charm nor beauty, and without her he had been quite happy for

the past two years, surrounded by smiling faces and kept constantly

amused by the ladies and gentlemen of his Court.

He had a jovial nature, and was an indulgent father to his two young

daughters, especially fond of the younger, Princess Veronica, for more

delightful sweetness, prettiness, and lovableness it would be difficult

to find in any other young damsel of sixteen years old. So believed that

fine young soldier, Prince Olivin; and so believed every one else in

the whole kingdom. Every one else, with one exception--Princess

Christobel, her sister, older by one year. She had her own ideas on the

subject evidently, for she kept a surly silence when her sister's

praises were sung. People said it was her jealousy, because she was

plain-looking, and sulky in expression and character; and some did say

she was secretly in love with Prince Olivin herself.

Outside the castle this night the silent landscape had been decorated,

by order of King Frost, in snow and crystal. Inside the castle the great

halls had been decorated, by order of King Jorum, in holly and

mistletoe. In the antechamber to the ball-room stood the giant

Christmas-tree, hung with so many gifts of exquisite needlework from the

ladies of the Court for the King, and so many, too, for Princess

Veronica, that there was hardly room for any other presents for any one

else, so they had to be stacked up in separate heaps on the floor.

There was one present on the tree, which was handsomer and costlier than

all the rest--it was a pair of woollen boots so cunningly and

dexterously wrought with precious jewels that they were the most

beautiful ever seen or heard of. They were the handiwork of Countess

Spinx, and of all the handsome ladies who were assembled in the

ball-room where the candles in the chandeliers cast a softening light

on their charms, she seemed this Christmas Eve the most unnerved, the

most excited. Courtiers came strolling in by twos and threes, and the

scene became animated and gay.

For as history shows, it was the custom at the Court of King Jorum, by

special decree of the Monarch, that every man, woman, and child should

dress themselves in costumes of any distinctive style they

liked--whatever suited their fancy best. (That was the origin, ages

after, of the term--fancy-dress.) There was thus no slavish following of

fashion, and consequently every one looked, or fancied they looked,

their very, very best, and were thoroughly at ease in their quaint and,

mostly, fascinating attire.

"Here's Little Love!" exclaimed a bevy of fair dames, pressing forward

as a handsome child stepped into their midst, dressed as Cupid, and

looking the realest of little Loves from the tips of his tiny bare toes

to the tips of his tiny bare wings. He was the King's godson and pet.

"He's sure to know! Perhaps he can give us a hint of the news!"

exclaimed Countess Spinx with eyes blazing eagerly as she placed herself

in his path, with her crook firmly planted on the ground: she was

dressed as a shepherdess, which showed to advantage the curls on her

fair neck, and her small feet in their high-heeled shoes. "Whisper to

me!" she coaxed; "or," with a pretty shake of the crook, "I'll not let

you pass!"

Little Love might have been deaf, looking neither to the right nor to

the left, so unconcernedly did he continue his way stolidly on to meet

the procession of the King.

Countess Spinx bit her lip in vexation; the other ladies merely shrugged

their shoulders and laughed; and the gentlemen stroked their mouths to

hide their smiles. Then all conversation was smothered by the entry of

the heralds with their raised silver trumpets and their--

_Par_--parraparpar--_pip_--ha!

_Par_--parraparpar--_paar_--_r_!

This was immediately followed by the entry of King Jorum holding Little

Love by the hand. The whole company bowed and curtsied very low--and

then stood at attention, breathless with expectation.

King Jorum was a very big man, with a very big smile, and very big

woollen boots. He always wore woollen boots because, being his own

Commander-in-chief, he liked to stand at ease. So he said, naturally in

a very big voice--

"According to my promise it is now my pleasure to announce to my Court

here assembled my decision with regard to your future Queen. After

prolonged thought and study of face and character I have come to the

conclusion that there is not one lady of my Court but who is quite

lovely enough and charming enough to become my royal consort. Therefore

to choose is difficult--so difficult that it is impossible, and, being

impossible, I shall never wed again. I have spoken."

[Illustration: _Looking neither to the right nor to the left_]

For a moment there was intense silence. Then deafening cheers arose, and

all faces were radiant with delight, especially the faces of the ladies,

who thus remained equals, no jealousy being possible. "Such tact!" said

one. "How true!" cried another. But one lady had slipped away

unobserved. It was Countess Spinx.

The gallant Monarch, unaccompanied, pleased at the reception given to

his declaration, smilingly passed on to the antechamber, as was his

wont, for a private view of the Christmas-tree before the revels

commenced. King Jorum had detached one of the woollen boots embroidered

with pearls and precious stones, anxiously tried it on, and was admiring

the effect, when Little Love appeared and inquired if he would grant an

interview to Prince Olivin, who was waiting without.

"I am engaged," was his Majesty's impatient reply.

"That, Sire, is what Prince Olivin wants to be!"

"Eh, what's that? Put on this other boot for me"--he unfastened it from

the tree. "Ha! that's very smart. Very attentive of the dear Countess.

Now show him in!"

The two young Princesses had not made their appearance for the

proclamation. They, as well as Little Love, had been in the King's

confidence, and they did not intend to be present. However, as the hour

of the revels was fast approaching, Veronica feared that her sister

would be late as usual, so she took her last glance at herself in the

mirror, tightened the blue ribbon that was threaded through her fair

hair, tucked a pale rose in the blue sash of her high-waisted, white

muslin frock, and flitted off happily to Christobel's room.

"Come in!" said a not very amiable voice in response to the light tap.

"Oh, it's you, is it?"

"Can I help you, as you have no maid?"

Princess Christobel's room was by no means tidy. "I don't want any

help," she replied ungraciously, moving some of the garments that

littered the bed, "but you can sit down there, if you like, next to the

'Shah of Persia.'"

Veronica took the place indicated next to the sweetest little blue

Persian kitten that was curled up fast asleep on the coverlet.

"I like your new frock, Veronica," continued Christobel, surveying her

sister as she pinned up her black hair without troubling even to do it

before a glass; "but you look pretty in anything. If you didn't, no one

would trouble to pet you. No one ever fusses over me."

"Papa does, for one."

"Only because he thinks it's his duty."

"I would if you'd let me."

"Oh yes. You'd be very pleased if I'd let you hang about me--an ugly

girl can't show to much advantage next to a pretty one. I know your

little game."

"Oh, Christobel! How can you say such unkind, unjust things?" protested

poor Veronica with a sob.

"If you want to cry," said Christobel crossly, "you shouldn't do so

until you go to sleep. You cry so easily; and then your bright eyes look

heavy, and your aquiline nose gets red, and the whole Castle gets upset

about them. Who cares if _my_ eyes are red?"

"Every one, of course. Besides, one's looks aren't everything."

"I know differently. Looks _are_ everything. But I don't care if people

trouble about me or not, or anything they do, or think, or say!"

"What _are_ you putting on, Christobel? Not _that_, surely!"

"Yes. Same old Red Riding Hood cape and green skirt--does for indoors or

out. Same old crew about, I suppose?"

"I suppose so. But it's Christmas Eve. Those loose things don't even

suit you. Let me lend you a new frock which I have, just the same as

this; we can arrange ribbons of your colour, red. We're the same height,

and it will suit you quite as well as it suits me."

"A nice comparison people would draw, eh?" sneered Christobel; and being

ready she took the sleepy Shah in her arms and stalked downstairs with

him faintly mewing his protests, leaving her sister to follow if she

liked.

In the ball-room Christobel superciliously took no notice of the

respectful greetings of the Court. She was naturally shy, reserved too,

and sensitive as to her appearance and lack of charm. But Veronica had a

kind word for every one, stopping to greet with a smile or a merry jest

all present; for they all adored her for her sweetness, graciousness,

and extraordinary beauty. There wasn't a man but who would have died for

her, nor a woman but who felt better for her radiant presence. Little

Love suddenly appeared and whispered something to Princess Veronica, who

blushed, was confused, and said in a low voice to her sister--

"Prince Olivin is here! Papa has sent for me."

"You might have told me he was coming," replied Christobel, turning

pale.

"But I never knew, indeed." Her sister had turned away, and Little Love

was leading Veronica towards the antechamber.

It seemed to Princess Christobel as though every face in the ball-room

was a mask, and behind that mask were eyes that gleamed with

mockery--that she had only to turn her back, and fingers of scorn and

derision would mark her passage--and she turned and fled, never pausing

in her course through the long passages and up the marble stairway until

she was back in her room, where she flung the poor Shah and herself on

the bed and burst into a torrent of tears and lamentations in her

loneliness, disappointment, and jealousy. The kitten, too, looked

unusually blue, and mewed disconsolately--felt bored, then purred,

stretched its little self on the coverlet, and fell asleep again. Before

long the sound of the heralds' silver trumpets pierced right up into

Christobel's ears--

_Par_--parraparpar--_pip_--ha!

_Par_--parraparpar--_paar_--_r_!

And she knew that the engagement was then being announced of Princess

Veronica to Prince Olivin; and the strains of the Waltz of the

Affianced which followed, played by the Court musicians, confirmed the

fact.

How long she remained thus in the dark she did not know. Sounds of an

angry voice roused her from her stupor, and she went out into the

brilliantly lighted corridor, shading her eyes from the glare, the scent

of flowers and the soft strains of music becoming more noticeable as she

approached the stairway whence the voices proceeded--one of which she

could now distinguish as being that of her sister. She peeped over the

banisters, and saw, standing close beside Veronica, Countess Spinx,

white with suppressed passion.

"You knew," hissed the Countess, "that there was to be no Queen."

"I and my sister knew. Yes. Let me pass; I don't know what's become of

her. I want to fetch her."

"You might have told it to your old friend. You are looking radiantly

beautiful to-night."

"I am very happy."

"Happy with your betrothed?"

"Yes."

"Listen! Did you know that every one said _I_ had the best chance of

being Queen?"

"You!" exclaimed the young Princess in astonishment. "Fancy young you my

stepmother!" and she burst out into a merry laugh. The next moment she

was falling headlong down the marble stairway, and then lay quite still,

bruised and bleeding. In the stillness that ensued--for the music had

stopped--Countess Spinx flew upstairs, where she was confronted by

Princess Christobel, who pushed roughly past her and hurried down to her

sister's side. Her screams for help brought people running from every

side. The injured girl, still unconscious, was quickly borne to her

apartments, and the Court physicians surrounded her.

All sorts of rumours were set afloat in the Castle, but all that was

gathered for certain by the company, as they dispersed, was that

Princess Veronica slipped on the marble stair owing to her new

high-heeled shoes--that the sweet face was strapped and bandaged, for it

was all cut and bruised, that the nose was broken, and her beauty spoilt

for ever. Prince Olivin was half wild with grief, and poor King Jorum

was shedding tears all alone in his study when Christobel sought

admittance. Her face was set and stern, and the sight of his weakness

didn't unnerve her as she said bluntly--

"Father, Veronica did not slip on the stair--she was purposely and

viciously thrown down."

"Eh, _what_?" exclaimed the King, staring at her. "Are you taking leave

of your senses? There's not a soul who would hurt my pretty darling.

You have enemies. She has none."

"_She_ was happy. Others were not. Countess Spinx was in a fury of

disappointment at not being chosen Queen. She flung poor Veronica down

in spite and malice. I saw her do it."

The King bounded up. "Summon the Countess!" he cried.

Before her Christobel repeated her accusation, and Countess Spinx tried

to assert she only put out her arms to save the unfortunate Princess

from slipping. Further questioned, she got confused, contradicted

herself, and finally sunk on her knees and prayed for mercy.

"To the cells!" shouted the King, and his eyes falling on his jewelled

boots, he hastily tore them off and threw them after her as she was

carried away.

When, next day, poor little Princess Veronica recovered consciousness

and was free from pain she asked for her sister, who came quickly to her

side.

"Have you heard," asked Veronica faintly, "that I--I--I am maimed for

life? With a broken nose and scarred face I shall not only be ugly but

repulsive."

"Poor Veronica! You will then be on the same level with me in the

future. How you will miss all the petting, all the love!"

"I suppose my life is spoilt. And when I had beauty, I thought of it and

prized it so little. But won't you love me, Christobel?"

"Yes, I will now."

"Why only now?"

"Because I shall always feel sorry for you--I have never felt sorry for

any one but myself before--and I shall love you heaps and heaps."

"Don't you think others may feel sorry for me, too?--Poor Prince Olivin!

Poor me!" she added with a little moan.

Christobel shook her head sadly. "Beauty is everything! You will

understand that now."

No limbs were broken, and in a couple of days Princess Veronica, with

her head and face veiled in white lace, was able to receive some visits

of sympathy in her misfortune.

King Jorum was inconsolable, and whenever he came out of the invalid's

room he would vow terrible threats of vengeance on Countess Spinx, who

was trembling for her spiteful life in the cells.

On the third night after the Christmas festivities had been brought to

their sudden and tragic close, Princess Christobel dreamed such a vivid

dream that it awakened her. She dreamed that Little Love, who avoided

her whenever he could, came smilingly up to her, kissed her hand, and

raising a letter he held, showed, with a look of triumph which puzzled

her, that it was addressed to her sister. She awoke, and instantly

remembered that Little Love had really kissed her hand that evening, to

her great surprise. She sat up in bed listening, for she fancied she

heard her sister call. Becoming anxious for her comfort, she rose, and

went gently in to her. It was quiet in the dimly lighted chamber. The

invalid lay softly sleeping, her face all bandaged, and her glorious

hair a mass of gold about the pillow. Under her hand was an open letter.

Tempted by the influence of her dream, Christobel drew nearer. It was

Prince Olivin's firm writing--there were only a few lines, and the

moonlight shone full upon them. She could not help reading:--

"Beloved! Think not to release me. It is your sweet nature I

love. You. Your beautiful mind. Nothing could ever change them!

OLIVIN."

Was it joy for her sister? was it some gleam of an unknown sense of

peace, tenderness, and hope in her soul, that brought scalding tears to

Christobel's eyes as, half blinded by them, she groped her way back to

her room, where she fell on her knees and cried softly, and prayed that,

now through her tears her eyes had been opened, she might learn to

become different? "Beauty is _not_ everything, then!" she repeated

wonderingly to herself over and over again, finding each time fresh

comfort in the thought. "How wrong I have been! Out of her disfigurement

Veronica says my love for her has grown, and is worth much to her in

comfort. It has brought us close together, and made us both happy. How

grateful she is for every one's attention! And now the Prince still

pleads for her! So! it was not her beauty that attracted him--it was not

her beauty--not her beauty!" Thus she thought earnestly and long, and it

brought her a strange sense of faith in herself and others. "I shall

tell them all that I, too, know how truly she deserves her happiness!"

And tell them she did, and they opened their eyes and bowed

respectfully, and thought more of Princess Christobel than they had ever

thought before.

New Year's Eve came round with its accustomed regularity, and the

inmates of Cosmopolis Castle were looking unusually grave for the

occasion. Princess Veronica was to appear once more in their midst, and

with the bandages removed from her poor face. It was a silent, uneasy

company that had gathered together in the great ball-room, and King

Jorum, engaged in a game of "Snap" with Little Love in a corner, looked

ill and worn from anxiety for his favourite child.

Suddenly the card-players rose, and a thrill of excitement went through

the assembly--Princess Veronica stood on the threshold in white muslin

and blue. Her face showed no trace of scars; but her nose! Her nose was

unrecognisable. It was no more aquiline, but tip-tilted--the sweetest

little turned-up feature imaginable, and her appearance had actually

_gained_: Princess Veronica had become the loveliest lady in the land!

After being locked in her father's arms Veronica found herself suddenly

in those of her lover. King Jorum was frantic with delight. He called

for Doctor Quick and made him Lord High Druggist of his Majesty's

dominions, with all the appanages, endowments, privileges, and

perquisites appertaining to the office. He showered honours on every

physician on or near the premises. He talked of bonfires, and of

honours, and tiaras all round, until he was hoarse. Then Princess

Christobel appeared in white muslin and red ribbons, and there were

cheers for her animated appearance and her kind expression as she

gracefully returned their greeting. "Father," she said, drawing him on

one side, "Veronica is asking for Countess Spinx. May I--may I tell the

prisoner that now all is well she is forgiven?" King Jorum shook his

head vigorously, although he was too happy to do anything but smile all

the time. "She has been in the cells for ever so long," pleaded

Christobel, and her father was so taken aback at the revelation of her

fine eyes and sweet voice, which had never at any time struck him

before, that he nodded his head violently.

That evening a stranger was bidden to the feast--no less a person than

the great traveller, brother to Prince Olivin, just returned from a

voyage of discovery--the bronzed and manly young Duke of Rosenleaf. "Who

is that charming young girl?" he asked, as soon as he set eyes on her.

"Princess Christobel, your Highness," replied Little Love with a sly

smile.

King Jorum couldn't get to sleep that night. He usually slept too much,

and was in the habit of unscrewing the top of his foot-warmer and

pouring therefrom the hot coffee which he imbibed at intervals in order

not to oversleep himself in the morning and thus set a bad example in

the land. But he had no need for it to-night. He could not get to sleep

at all.

He thought, and thought, and thought what had wrought such a marvellous

and rapid change in the character and appearance of his elder daughter.

He smiled over it, too, and smiled until his cheeks ached with so much

smiling, as much as his poor head ached with so much thought. Still he

went on thinking right through the night, and just as he put up his

arms above his head to break into a mighty yawn, he suddenly cried--

"I have it! That's it! She has realised the old theme of Peace and

Goodwill, as is proper at this time of year, and has turned over a new

leaf! Bravo!" And he turned himself over, snored, and overslept himself.

So the first day of the New Year opened in complete harmony at the Court

of King Jorum. And when the Duke of Rosenleaf asked Princess Christobel

if she would make the Happy New Year a happy one for him, she smiled and

blushingly allowed him to place the prettiest of diamond rings on her

finger.

And the New Year was still in its youth when the two young Princesses

were married. And by the time that the Shah of Persia's

great-great-grand-kittens were gambolling about the palace, it had

become a frequent and pleasant subject for argument and debate

throughout the kingdom--"Who is the most charming and lovable woman in

the land, Christobel or Veronica?"

ONE APRIL DAY

PART I

A QUEER GODMOTHER

It was the First of April. The weather could not make up its mind

whether to be tearful or gay. So, after changing three times, and

deciding at last that it was not grown-up to cry, the sun dried up the

tear-drops and beamed down on everything and everybody.

"Isn't it a shame, Wilfrid, to have to prepare lessons when it's such a

fine afternoon?" exclaimed Norah. She rose from the study table and

looked longingly out of the French window to where the crocuses on the

lawn seemed to be having the best of it.

"Don't be lazy," replied her brother. "Just come and help me with this

sum when I tell you."

"I'm not going to do as you tell me. If you were grown up--say

fifteen--it would be different; but you're only a year older than

me--not even nine yet--and yet you----"

"Halloa!" interrupted Wilfrid with a low whistle, as he strolled

towards the window. "Look at that's legs."

"Which's?" inquired Norah, gazing in the direction he pointed.

"Them's."

"What's?" she asked eagerly, looking around.

"None! Well, you _are_ an April fool!" exclaimed Wilfrid with scornful

glee as he resumed his seat; "that's the second time to-day!"

"And you're a very rude boy, and you're not allowed to call me horrid

names like that," said Norah with dignity; "and I won't be teased

always."

With a very offended look, she set to work on her copy-book.

"Lend me your paint-box when we've finished our lessons, will you, Norah

dear?" said Wilfrid, after a short pause.

"I can't," she replied, without looking up.

"Why?"

"I don't know why, but I can't."

"Cat in the manger! You've got nothing you want to paint, as I have."

There was a longer pause, during which they both scribbled away, and

scratched, and spluttered, whilst their tongues moved silently from side

to side outside their parted lips, left to right, following the

direction of each new line.

Then Norah heaved a sigh and remarked--

"Wilfrid, isn't Cinderella lovely?"

"Yes, as girls go."

"Oh, how I wish we lived in those times, when there were fairy

godmothers and things!" exclaimed Norah rapturously; then she added with

a sigh--

"Aunt Leonora is my godmother, but she never gives me anything, and the

godmothers in the fairy stories always give heaps of things."

"You can't expect great fat podges like that to be like fairy

godmothers, you silly!"

"But she ought to like giving things. How nice it is to give presents

and be thanked!"

"Yes; it's nice to give presents--when they are cheap. Perhaps,"

continued her brother in a wise voice,--"perhaps Aunt Leonora can't

afford it if she isn't rich!"

"Cinderella's godmother never seemed to consider the price of anything.

I wish--oh, how I wish----"

"Oh, how I wish you'd be quiet and help me with this sum. You remember

your tables better than I do, but you needn't be jolly cocky about it

all the same."

Norah wasn't listening to him. Her mind was far away from lessons. She

was thinking, if she had her choice, what she would like to be, what she

would like to do, and eat, and, above all, what she would like to wear.

"If only I had a fairy godmother, I----"

"Rubbish!" exclaimed Wilfrid, growing cross, and frowning as he watched

her moving restlessly about the room.

"I--of course, I wouldn't refuse her anything. Fairy godmothers

generally appear at first disguised as old women, and ask for something,

such as a drink of water, or beg you to carry a load of wood or whatever

they happen to have in hand. So I should be ready to do anything and

give anything, and earn my big reward."

"Oh, shurrup!" growled her brother. "Much better lend me your

paint-box."

But she didn't hear him; taken up with her fancies she continued

excitedly--

"I know what I'll do. I'll try and tempt her to come. Perhaps I may even

have a fairy godmother without knowing it!"

And she began to dance about, singing--

"Tra-la-la, fairy godmother,

Come to me now, I pray;

Visit a little girl who is longing for you

And will do anything you want.

Tra-la-la, fairy godmother, come."

It wasn't very good poetry, but Norah hadn't time to polish it up.

"Oh, I say! How can I do my lessons with all this going on?" exclaimed

Wilfrid. And flinging his things together he bounced out of the room and

banged the door behind him.

Norah wasn't sorry he was gone, and danced once more all round the room

singing; then knelt down, and, stretching out her arms towards the

crocuses which were so stiff and upright in their indifference, she said

plaintively--

"Come, dear fairy godmother, I want you!"

And lo! between Norah and the window there suddenly appeared a little

old woman in a long cloak, whose features were hidden by the large hood

she wore.

"Oh!" exclaimed Norah, almost breathless in her astonishment and

delight.

"I have come," said the stranger in cracked, quavering tones.

"I'm so glad to see you," replied Norah politely, too excited to feel

shy.

"I--your fairy godmother--am here to test you and see if you are really

worthy. See this slate which I have brought under my cloak. Every little

lady should be able to do arithmetic right. Can you do this sum?"

"How funny, godmother dear!" said Norah, looking at it. "We are just

learning these. It's a difficult one, but I'll try."

In a few moments she had done the sum and proved it correct.

"Very good," said the fairy, with a grunt of satisfaction.

"Will you take a drink of water?" now asked the hospitable Norah

eagerly. "Do."

"No, thank you. But I may take something else. Tell me, what of all your

treasures do you like most?"

"Oh, my paint-box!"

"I knew it; I am glad you tell the truth."

"How did you know it?" asked Norah in surprise.

"I am your fairy godmother. I'll take that paint-box, please."

Norah brought it and gave it to her with the greatest pleasure, and

pressingly inquired if she might carry anything anywhere. But that was

not required. Then she stood waiting expectantly. And her heart seemed

to turn a somersault of delight when her fairy godmother spoke the

following words:--

"I am satisfied. Now you may wish for whatever you like. But you must

make up your mind before I count three."

Norah's eyes had followed her glance at the clock, which pointed to one

minute to three; but her mind, from the flutter of excitement she was

in, became a complete blank.

"One!" said the fairy solemnly.

This brought the little goddaughter to her senses, and she began to

mutter confusedly--

"Shall I wish for a gold carriage, like Cinderella's, or a pet lamb,

with a blue ribbon and a bell round its neck, or a frock embroidered in

diamonds, or----"

"Two!" said the fairy.

"No," murmured Norah hurriedly. "If I were a queen, I could order those

things and everything else. I wish"--the clock struck three--"I were

a----"

"Three!" called out the fairy.

"----a Queen!" screamed Norah, just the second after.

"Too late!" said the fairy. "Farewell!" And she moved towards the door.

Norah's eyes filled with tears. "Please come back!" she pleaded.

"I can't."

"Oh, why can't you?"

"I don't know why, but I can't," replied the little old woman.

This sounded strangely in Norah's ears, and what sounded stranger still

were the next words she heard uttered; these were simply--

"Thanks, awfully!"

Then Norah exclaimed at once, "That's Wilfrid's voice!" She pushed aside

the hood. "Why, you're Wilfrid!" she cried, amazed.

"And you're April Billy!" he shouted with glee, throwing off the long

cloak. "You said you'd do anything and give anything for a reward, and

now you've had to do so without one!" And, bursting out laughing, he ran

off with the sum and the paint-box.

Norah sat down on a footstool and burst out crying. She was angry and

disappointed, and she sobbed bitterly as she thought how she had been

tricked into doing Wilfrid's horrid sum, how she had been made to give

away her treasured paint-box which he had envied for months, and, worst

of all a thousand times, how she had no fairy godmother after all!

PART II

THE LITTLE FLOWER GIRL

But Norah was a plucky little girl, and at times a wise little girl.

And, moreover, she had a sort of feeling that it all served her right

for being silly, and dissatisfied, and too selfish to lend her

paint-box. Wilfrid certainly was a tease, but he was really a dear good

brother, and always lent her his things, and did his best to champion

her and get her out of a scrape.

Still, she felt she would like to pay him out, all the same--he'd had

such a lovely time being fairy godmother!

So she decided, like the weather, that it was not grown-up to cry, and

she dried her eyes. Then all at once she smiled and laughed outright.

For an idea had come to her, which she proceeded to carry out. She

certainly began to do some rather queer things.

First of all she took off her shoes and stockings. Then she untied the

pink ribbon which kept her hair tidy, so that her curls fell in a

towsled mass about her flushed cheeks. Next she took off her pink

overall pinafore, which she hid away; and gathering her white frock over

her head, displayed a short red-and-white striped petticoat.

Running quickly about the room she took all the violets from the vases,

strewed some of them in the fold of her frock, which she held together

in one hand, and put together a large bunch of the flowers for her other

hand.

Then she stepped through the open window, threw some sand upon her feet

and ankles, and thus prepared, stood on the path outside, looked in, and

waited.

Very soon Wilfrid burst into the room, exclaiming--

"Come and look at the healthy colour I've painted on your big doll's

pale cheeks. Oh, Norah!" he added, looking round the empty room.

And now he became conscious of a little flower-girl standing on the

garden path, and piteously offering him a bunch of violets.

Norah had heard what he had said, and felt vexed that he had dared to

touch her big doll; still, she had not the affection for that stately

lady that she had for the small invalid doll with the broken leg, so she

only said--

"Buy a bunch of violets, sir?"

He was a tender-hearted boy, and at once fetched down his money-box from

a shelf in the cupboard, unlocked it, and took out twopence which he

gave her; but then he felt awkward and refused the flowers.

An organ in the street started playing.

"I can dance to that if you can pay," said the little girl thoughtfully,

eyeing the money-box.

"How much do you want?" he asked.

"Three shillings," she replied boldly.

"That's all I've got."

"That'll do, then," she said; "I want it so badly."

"Yes, but----"

Not heeding his protests, she stole into the room and began to dance to

the organ, as she had seen the poor children do in the streets, her

little bare feet twirling up slowly and descending with measured steps

on to the soft carpet.

"Oh, I say!" soon exclaimed Wilfrid with dissatisfaction; "my sister

Norah can dance better than that, for nothing!"

Nevertheless, he felt bound to empty his money-box into the hand she now

held out.

Solemnly she made him a little bob of a curtsey. Then she began to caper

about the room in a very different sort of spirit. And then, catching

hold of the astonished boy round the neck, she kissed him.

"Hi! Shurrup!" cried Wilfrid, disengaging himself and looking sheepish.

"Oh, you April goose!" sang Norah; "April goose--you're an April goose,

Master Wilfrid!" And she uncovered her head and shook back her curls.

"Halloa!" exclaimed Wilfrid, ruefully at first, and then added more

cheerily--

"Ha! Do you think I didn't know you all the time?"

"Did you really?" inquired his sister, her eyes wide open with surprise.

"No, I didn't," he replied curtly.

Then Norah's arm stole round her brother's neck, and she put the money

into his pocket, and told him gently that she had only wanted to have a

little bit of fun, and he was welcome to use her paint-box--only please

not on her dolls.

Then Wilfrid told her that she was a jolly good sort; and that after

all it was a shame to tease her, as she couldn't fight him for it. And

Norah hugged him, and they both laughed about how well they had

"pretended" to one another.

The sun was shining still, and when the children romped on the lawn the

stuck-up crocuses didn't have the best of it, after all.

THE STORM THE TEAPOT BREWED

In a bright nursery, hung with pictures, the table was laid for tea.

Upon an iron tray, which had seen much service--even military service,

as a drum used by the nursery band--stood the tea-set. This set included

a very large cup which belonged to Nurse, bearing the funny inscription,

"I am not greedy, but I like a lot." The other cups were also lettered

in gold. One hailed, it declared, "From Margate," and showed the pier as

a proof. Another, a small one made of porcelain, wished "Many Happy

Returns to Effie" every time she looked at it. A thick, fat cup

proclaimed itself "A Present to Daniel," and a mug bore the perpetual

reminder that it was "For a Good Boy"--but it was cracked, so it didn't

look quite happy, perhaps because the reminder was not always capable of

keeping the boy good.

The Kettle completed the party, but sat comfortably on the warm hob next

the fire, drowsily singing snatches of song, in the knowledge of having

done his duty in giving the thirsty Teapot a drink of water. So all was

ready for tea except the children. Nurse had gone to collect them, when

the Chinese Teapot, who always liked to appear important, suddenly

exclaimed--

"What a noise that Kettle is making, to be sure! One could scarcely hear

one's self rattle if one wanted to."

The Kettle, ignoring the protest, sang on--

"Just now we were quiet,

No noise and no riot,

You could hear a bread-plate drop--Flop!"

"We used to have a very nice English teapot once," remarked the

Porcelain Cup.

"I remember," replied her neighbour from Margate. "He came from

Worcestershire. He was a big pot, and thought himself no end of a

swell."

"What! Kettle-time already!" exclaimed the Tongs, yawning and stretching

his legs.

"A nice sort of life it is for one of my grade and standing," grumbled

the Teapot, "to be surrounded by such a set of ugly, foreign mugs and

things as you all are!"

There was a general rattling of displeasure at the insult, but it was

drowned by the Kettle, who could see a joke, singing up merrily--

"If there's a fuss--if a Pot should allude

As a 'mug' to a China Cup,

There's always a clatter

Of jug, plate, and platter,

Till somebody washes them up."

"It's disgraceful to go on like this!" complained the Milk-jug, looking

rather broken-down about the handle.

"Ah!" said the Teapot with a sneer, "when one only dates from 1887, and

hasn't a handle to one's back, one should retire to the seclusion of the

cupboard, and remain there as a curio."

"There was once a Jubilee Jug-gins,

Jug-jug-juggins,"

hummed the Kettle.

"Poor old crock!" said the Sugar-basin sweetly, melting with pity

through all her composition. For she was his inseparable companion, and

knew that the Milk-jug was full of human kindness, and useful still.

"Never mind the quarrelling, darlings," whispered the gentlemanly Spoons

to their lady friends, whom they had taken in to tea, "we will protect

you."

"Upon my word!" exclaimed she from Margate, "I'm glad _I_ was not born

in China. Where I come from rudeness is unknown."

The Kettle took up the idea and sang gaily--

"They're pottery, porcelain, colour, and gold,

They come from the china shop,

Where crockery's bought, and the customer's sold,

And the Bull galloped in so angry and bold,

And when the poor, terrified shopkeeper told

Him to go, he did nothing but stop."

"You ought to have a will of iron if you're made of the right stuff,"

she continued, addressing the Tray; "you ought to keep order, but you

say nothing and do less."

"You see, he's only a waiter--slow and unpolished," added the Teapot

spitefully.

"My view, if I may express it--" broke in the Cup from Margate.

"When I want your view, either of Margate or of politeness," retorted

the Tray, interrupting the remark, "I'll ask for it. If I'd the chance

I'd drop the whole lot of you, and get friendly with a new set, that I

would!"

Whereupon the irrepressible Kettle chirruped--

"Then he'd pay the expense of the mender's bill--

The mender is Doctor, you see--

Who makes out an order,

A matter of sawder

And rivets, cement, and a fee."

"You're always brewing mischief!" said Nurse's Cup angrily to the

Teapot; "there'll be no peace for any of us where you are."

"That's true!" screamed out the little Tea-leaves inside the pot; "he's

always getting us into hot water."

"I'll draw the tannin out of the whole ounce of you! You're about as

sensible as mortals who haven't the wit to understand us. But when we

go cracked like Muggins over there, or stony broke like the Juggins

next to him, or get smashed up altogether with age or lack of care, they

take notice of us at last, and then there is a mighty fine fuss."

At this the Kettle, getting somewhat out of breath from his exertions,

bubbled out in a high key--

"They're Wedgwood, Staffordshire, Japanese too,

They're a breakable lot, we know;

When any one cracks any,

Chelsea or Saxony,

Dresden, or Worcester, or Bow,

They make as much shindy

As if a big windy

Was shivered to bits by a blow."

The Teapot went on: "Those people are amusing, too; they think we ought

to last for ever, when they can't do it themselves."

"A couple of chatterpots!" exclaimed the Nurse's Cup. "Dear me! What

with your spouting, and his showing off once he begins to sing, you're

enough to wear one out!"

"_Dear_ you, indeed!" returned the Teapot; "_cheap_ you! Why, you were

given away with a pound of tea! Shouldn't be surprised at all!" he

continued, watching Nurse's Cup become speechless with indignation.

"But, spouting aside, I could tell you a thing or two."

"Or three--or four--or five--or--" The Kettle might have sung on into

billions had he not begun to choke over it, and splutter, and gurgle.

Then he grew vexed, and snorted, and got angrier and angrier, until

finally, in order to breathe more easily, he knocked his lid on one

side, and began to boil with rage.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the Teapot mockingly. "The old fellow's getting his

steam up. Pray don't de-range yourself, sir, on our account. He, he!

He's getting water on his nob!"

This didn't seem to comfort the Kettle much.

"What do you think about it, Spoonies?" added the Teapot. But the Spoons

heeded him not. They were conversing quietly in couples, and didn't care

to be drawn into argument. So he turned his attention elsewhere, bent on

brewing discord. "People are so thoughtless," he complained, turning a

cold shoulder to the others. "Muggins, my boy, I'm beginning to get

quite chilly; just go and fetch my cosy coat." He knew this was an

impossibility, and he only said it in order to pick a quarrel. But,

noticing a distant Plate who was openly laughing at him, he cuttingly

remarked: "Seen the plumber, lately?" Now, the Plate happened to be

suffering severely from rivets, an infirmity which she vainly tried to

hide, and which she hated to be noticed. So, getting no reply, he

added, "I presume that your plumbago is better."

The Kettle was now puffing and spitting to such a degree that it was

difficult to imagine he was the same jolly fellow who had been singing

so good-temperedly all the time.

And the Teapot was content. He had gained his object, and the whole set

felt as though they had been wiped the wrong way, when suddenly noisy

voices were heard outside.

The nursery door was opened, and in burst Fred, home from Margate

School, followed by gentle little Effie; and Nurse, vigorously

protesting at being pushed forward in jerks by Bob. Poor, long-suffering

Nurse, as usual, was not having at all a good time with the three

troublesome boys. Daniel had clambered on her back, and was trying to

pull off her cap. Bob--who was not nearly such "A Good Boy" as his mug

pretended--slily untied her apron-strings. The apron dropped, and Nurse

tripped over it, jerking Daniel on to the floor; and she would have

fallen too had she not just saved herself by clutching the table.

"Cr-cr-crikey!" clattered the China on the tray in alarm.

"Bless those boys!" cried Nurse, as she replaced her apron; but they

only laughed. Effie was helping to put her cap straight when the

Kettle, unable to contain his feelings any longer, marked his

indignation by hissing disapproval and then boiling over. Nurse rushed

to his aid, and altered his position so that he couldn't see all that

went on. He recovered himself at once.

Bustling into their chairs, they all sat down to tea, and at the sudden

action the whole tea-set rattled to arms, some standing at attention.

The Spoons, stirred by the children's hands, began knocking the sides of

the Cups, dealing them blows right and left, and ringing out their

resounding protests.

"Here's a 'stranger'!" exclaimed Effie, taking a tea-leaf out of her

cup. "Who will it be?"

"A horrid foreigner, miss--a little black Indian," replied the Teapot,

turning up his spout with scorn, and giving a vicious squeeze to the

others he held prisoners.

"I know who it is!" said Bob, tilting back his chair, then suddenly

steadying himself by grasping the table. This was a troublesome habit of

his, which drew Nurse's usual reminder.

"What's his name?" asked the others eagerly.

"_I_ know--it's a secret," replied Bob mysteriously.

At this a loud argument began.

"My lid! Who's making the noise now?" the Teapot cried. "Pray don't

upset your precious selves."

"I think it must be Mr. Manners who is the stranger," exclaimed Nurse,

putting her hands to her ears to shut out the tumult.

"No!" shouted Bob. "I'll tell you--his name's Mr. Tea-leaf!" And he

laughed triumphantly.

As the other children raised their voices to declare it was very unfair,

Bob swung back on his chair again.

"Oh!" screamed Nurse in a fright, making a grab at the table. But she

was too late!

Bob had already made a grab at it when, with a _Swish! Bang!_ he tumbled

over backwards, dragging the cloth with him, and everything upon it. And

the crockery lay around, all broken to atoms!

In the moment of hushed alarm that followed, the Tray rolled away,

exclaiming in triumph: "I've got rid of them at last! I said I would

when I got the chance!" And the Kettle, gazing at the wreckage, sang on

serenely and merrily--

"There's been such a fuss, such a storm has been brewed,

There's no cups for the tea, and no plates for the food;

The cleverest doctor may puzzle his wits,

But he never can gather and rivet the bits!"

MONICA THE MOON CHILD

I

THIS SIDE OF THE MOON

It was one of those late afternoons in winter when the countryside looks

very white, very still, and hushed to sleep under its coverlet of

snow--just the time when the bright fire at home is thought of with

delightful longing. The gentleman who drove the phaeton that was bowling

along the frosty road must have thought so too, for he cracked his whip

so smartly that it sounded loud in the silent landscape, startling the

cob to a more hurried remembrance of his snug stable.

"Not very far now, Doctor," he remarked to the friend who sat next to

him. "Home soon, Toodleums," he added, turning towards a big bundle of

shawls at the back of the carriage.

"I'm in no hurry, Papa," replied a childish voice; "I call this lovely!"

"Quite warm, eh?"

"Quite, thank you, Papa."

The bundle, answering to the name of Toodleums, was Monica--her father's

constant companion. She was an only child. Her mother had always been

delicate, and Monica was not allowed to be much with her. She even

forgot that the invalid at home was ailing rather more than usual

to-day, and that their long drive was to fetch her old friend the Doctor

for his opinion, for she was listening with so much interest to an

explanation which her father was giving of the new airship he had

invented. He was still describing his successful trial trip, when Monica

noticed that the moon and stars seemed to have assembled all at once to

make a night of it. Never before had she driven out after dark, and soon

she became all absorbed, in a state of muffled-up rapture, at the

unusual sights and aspect of mystery about.

"Hi! Toodleums, do you hear? What do you say to going up with me in my

airship next time I go? Will you come?"

"Yes, yes," she answered eagerly; "I'll come, Papa."

"You're not afraid of bumping up against the moon?" asked the doctor

playfully, leaning over to pat her cheek. And both gentlemen laughed.

Monica didn't answer. She didn't know if she was being made fun of or

not.

At last they were in the hall at home, amidst the lights and bustling of

the servants. As no one seemed to notice her, Monica took herself up to

the nursery. She had dressed there near the fire, and the boxes and

things had not been tidied away. Monica stared around, thinking this

very unusual, and was just beginning to feel uncomfortably lonely when a

little wrinkled old woman with very bright eyes hurriedly trotted in.

"Oh, Grandnurse," exclaimed Monica, "no one is looking after me. How's

Mamma?"

"Much better, Dearie. But I'm wanted downstairs; can you spare me,

Poppets? Put yourself to bed, and I'll be back directly with your hot

milk." Without waiting for an answer she bustled into the adjoining

night nursery, where Monica heard her busily opening and shutting the

great cupboards.

The cheery old body was called Grandnurse because she had been in the

family for ever so long--so long as to have become, as it were, a member

of it. Passing through the nursery again she stopped and said--

"What would my Poppets say to a little sister, I wonder! A tiny new

baby!"

"Oh, Grandnurse!" And before the old woman could hurry out of the door

Monica sprang forward, her face all aglow with excitement, and holding

her tight by the arm cried all in a breath--

"Is it true? Where is it? When's it coming? Who's going to bring it?"

"Patience; I can't wait now. Let me go, Dearie," said Grandnurse,

disengaging herself from the little girl.

"But is it true?"

"Quite true."

"What will it come in?"

"A bandbox, of course," answered Grandnurse, laughing gaily as she went

out of the room.

"Can I fetch it? When can I fetch it?" persisted Monica, following her

downstairs.

"When there's a blue moon. Now go back, there's a dear."

"Yes, but who's going to bring it?"

"Don't ask me--ask the man in the moon," said the little old woman over

her shoulder in a hushed voice as she disappeared down a dark passage of

the large house.

Monica, standing there, laughed a little scornful laugh. "Ask the man

in the moon, indeed!" she muttered. "As though there were one! She often

says that, but I'm not so silly as to believe it." And full of thought

of the new little sister she re-entered the nursery.

The heavy curtains had not been drawn, and the moon was looking at her

just as it had done during the drive. How lovely it was, that drive! She

went to the large window seat and curled herself up in her favourite

corner. Outside it looked so cold and white that she drew the curtain

close around her with a little shiver.

"Can Grandnurse really think there is a man in the moon?" pondered

Monica as she gazed up at it; and confusedly she thought on: "I wonder

if there is, after all. Can he be going to bring the baby? I should so

like to know, and when, or who is going to--I wish he'd tell me--perhaps

if I were to ask--who spoke about bumping up against the moon? Ah!!"

Monica had conceived a grand idea. Quietly she stole to the table,

snatched up the empty hatbox which ought to have been tidied away, and

then--and then she crept stealthily downstairs--everything was

quiet--stealthily out into the night she went. Now she was in the great

shed, where the airship was--quite an old friend. She had seen her

father start on his journey in it, and had heard it all explained. The

precious bandbox was placed in the car, and the next moment Monica was

beside it. She touched a button. The great structure moved. She held her

breath, and her heart thumped surprisingly. Then she clapped her hands

with delight--the airship slowly moved forward out of the shed, and when

she pulled a lever thing, close at hand, she was soaring like a bird

right out into the night, soaring right up towards the heavens. She was

going to ask the Man in the Moon to be kind enough to give her the new

baby she had come to fetch.

[Illustration:_She was soaring like a bird right out into the night_]

How cold and crisp the air was! Monica was glad to have on her coat and

cap of fur. Higher, higher she went until she lost consciousness of

everything except the cold and a sense of loneliness.

And the airship rose upwards, upwards, carrying its pretty burden with

eyes fast closed, and the curly brown head lay helplessly low, supported

by the staring white empty bandbox.

* * * * *

Bump! There was a crunching noise as of carriage wheels on a gravel

path. The airship was aground on something, and Monica realised she must

get her wits about her. She quickly pushed back the lever thing and the

noise ceased, the movement also.

In the brilliant light, like sunlight, Monica saw she had alighted on

some rocks, whilst round about was nothing but mountains, craters,

caverns, and awful stillness. There was not a creature about, nor a sign

of anything living. It was dreary to a degree.

"Wherever am I?" exclaimed little Monica. She scrambled out of the car,

and slung the bandbox on her arm--somehow there was company in that.

Above her a moon was shining--not _the_ moon she was accustomed to see,

but one about four times larger, as though suffering from a swollen

face, with a pattern on it like the map of Europe.

[Illustration: _Round about was nothing but mountains, craters,

caverns_]

"That does look queer," she muttered aloud. "Bumped against the moon!"

she thought to herself unconsciously. For now she remembered her father

having told her what the earth must look like from there; and she

realised that she had reached her destination, and was actually walking

about in the moon, and that the larger moon was really the earth. This

fact was so exciting that she sat down to consider it, enjoy its

importance, and decide what to do.

She determined to go on, and so she rose and went gaily forward, the

bandbox swinging from her arm. But it was very difficult walking, steep

and rocky.

At last she found herself in a large plain of broken stones--"much in

want of a steam roller," thought Monica as she bravely hobbled

along--and all around were caves.

Out of the largest one of these there emerged a tall and majestic

figure, which, to her astonishment, slowly glided sideways towards her,

wrapped in a cloudy drapery. Then Monica was convinced; and she no

longer had any doubt whatever but that there was a Man in the Moon, and

that this was he. So very slowly did he advance that she had plenty of

time to recover from her surprise, and went forward to meet him and

introduce herself.

His steely blue eye had a peculiar cold beam in it as he said--

"I bid you unwelcome! Are you not frightened?"

"No," replied the child. "Why should I be? I've done no harm."

"Do you call coming here no harm?" All the time he never stopped still a

second, but kept gloomily mooning about, his profile with its protruding

nose and chin in sharp outline always turned towards her.

"I've come to--to fetch--" stammered Monica, chilled by her reception.

"You're a trespasser! You're evidently a poacher, too," he added,

glancing angrily at the bandbox. "Begone!"

"But, please sir, do tell me----"

With a warning gesture the Man slowly raised his arm till its cloud-like

drapery hid his face, and he disappeared.

"Dear me! I don't like him a little bit!" murmured Monica, staring

vacantly about, and found that where he had stood there was a big board

on which in big letters was inscribed--

+-------------------------------------+

| TRESPASSERS WILL BE MOONSTRUCK. +

| BY ORDER. +

+-------------------------------------+

At the sight of it Monica quickly took refuge in the smallest of the

caves.

"Who are you?" said a voice; and as soon as her eyes had become

accustomed to the gloom she saw a queer creature resembling a great toad

swathed in a long white beard.

"Whoever you are," said the quaint inhabitant, "I'm too blind to see

you. Just lead me to the further corner, there's a good trespasser."

Monica did not quite like being talked to like that, but she held out

the bandbox and, supporting himself by it, her new acquaintance limped

to where he was led and sat down.

"Thanks, and many of them. It's not so draughty here," he said.

"Have you been long in this cave?" asked Monica.

"A few thousand years or so--I can't tell to a minute," he mumbled. "But

who are you, my dear? By birth, of course, a Lunarian, but not by

accent."

Monica mentioned who she was. Whereupon he became quite talkative, and

began telling her about the moon, but only what she had read in her

lesson books.

"Have you a House of Parliament?" she asked, anxious to glean useful

information. She had recently been to hear her father speak in theirs

at home, and was very proud of that.

"We've only a moonicipality, you know," said her strange companion,

rambling on until he became quite drowsy. Emboldened by his kind manner,

she told him why she had come, and begged for his advice. To her dismay

the only reply she got was a series of the loudest snores she had ever

heard. He was sound asleep.

"Do tell me what I had better do," she implored, and she shook and

pinched him till he awoke.

"Get on the right side of him, and don't bother me," croaked the old

creature, and snored louder than ever. Delighted at the hint, Monica

came out on to the plain, and saw the Man gliding slowly on, sideways,

as before. He frowned heavily on seeing her there, and seemed speechless

with indignation.

"Get on the right side of him," repeated Monica to herself as she made a

dart forward to do so. This proved unsuccessful, for just then he turned

so blue that she stopped, wondering if he was getting a fit.

Grandnurse's words, "When there's a blue moon," suddenly occurred to

her, and she knew that now was her chance. She took courage in his

slowness, and without looking at him a second time she rushed, stooping

low, into a very small cave on the other side of him.

II

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MOON

It was not a cave at all. It was an arbour, the beams of which were

moonbeams, so that Monica stepped straight through into it and sat down

upon a bench.

"Evidently the moon is not made of green cheese, as Grandnurse always

thought," pondered Monica with the pride of the discoverer. "I must

remember to tell her that." And she was just tying a knot in her

handkerchief to remind herself when she was startled to hear a musical

voice say--

"Are you aware that you are on the wrong side of the moon?" It belonged

to a tiny figure no bigger than Monica's doll, dressed like a lady

gardener, with apron, straw hat, and big gloves.

"The little blind man in the cave told me it is the right side for me,"

replied Monica politely.

"Oh!! He's never done so before. But if Toady told you that, then no one

can blame the Gardeness. Who are you?"

"I am Monica."

"It's a strange name. Some parents have queer fancies. You are the first

moon child who has ever come back. How you have grown, to be sure; I

shouldn't have known you!" When she heard Monica's errand and had

refreshed her memory as to where she lived, she remarked with surprise,

"We've had an order for one to be sent to your address to-day. We

always forward to customers' houses. But people _never_ come and fetch

them. It's a most unheard-of proceeding!" added the little lady with a

toss of her pretty head. "Where's your check?"

[Illustration: _A tiny figure, no bigger than Monica's doll_]

"Cheque? Have I got to buy it? I've just spent all my money on a new

doll," said Monica, her eyes filling with tears, "and now I might have

bought the new baby instead!"

"We're on the check system here," said the little lady, smiling. "Come

with me and I'll show you round, then you'll see what nonsense you're

talking."

Monica brightened up, and they proceeded down a trim gravel path that

had a moonstone wall on either side and a big door at the end.

"Who are you, please?" asked Monica as they went along.

"Where you come from, clever people call me Selene. Here, I am the

Gardeness.--Your pass check," she added in a business-like way. "To

Order or Bearer--which do you want?" The child hesitated. "You want to

order a baby, I suppose?" The Gardeness was becoming rather impatient.

"Oh yes, I've come to fetch it."

"But you can't have a cheque to Order and Bearer at the same time."

"Can't I?" inquired Monica plaintively. "How can I take it, then?"

"That will be my business," whispered her companion mysteriously; then

added loudly: "The little ones are being checked in the Counting House

now. Be quick, or the pick of the choice will be gone."

"To Order," faltered Monica.

Whereupon her companion pushed the great door, which swung open, and the

quaint pair quickly passed through. "They are always on order," remarked

the Gardeness as she led Monica up a high flight of steps, "but we

forward them in our own way. Excuse my question; it was a matter of

form."

Now they were in the loveliest garden ever seen, and Monica gave a

little sob of delight as she noticed that all around about her in every

flower nestled the dearest, wee-est little baby imaginable, whilst

hundreds of tiny creatures were tending them, drying the dew-drops from

their big round eyes, and turning their little bald heads for more air,

all the while humming a refrain which Monica recognised as her Mother's

favourite one, called the "Bee's Wedding."

At first she marvelled silently at the beauty of the scene. Then, as she

basked in the pervading warmth, she remembered having been surprised at

seeing the moon and sun out at the same time, and now realised the moon

was sunning its garden of babies.

"I've brought my bandbox," she remarked, laughing gaily.

"That's a good thing," replied her companion, "as it has to be a private

transaction. Stoop down," and she drew Monica closer to the rows upon

rows of the beautifullest roses, gently moved the petals of one of them,

and revealed embedded in the heart of the rose its own sweet little

baby.

[Illustration: _Rows upon rows of the beautifullest roses_]

Then the Gardeness told Monica with infinite pride about the flower

infants under her care. To her visitor's remark on their resemblance to

each other, she replied touchily, "I suppose you've seen many girls

called Rose, who were alike when born, but they differ enough later!

It's the same with the rest."

The Gardeness pointed out to her the children with the names of Lily,

Daisy, Sweet William, and others, all borne up by their especial flower;

her own flower, the Gardenia; and the Marigold's Mary; and told her how

in some flowers the children imbibe their tastes from their

surroundings. Thus, as they strolled around, Monica heard that the

Dandelion turns out too foppish a child: that amongst the wild oats the

harum-scarum boys develop: that the Blue Cornflower babies remain true

to their liking for farinaceous food: and in Love-lies-bleeding, little

Cupids are born.

Monica went through the vegetable garden and saw the turnips, where the

noses of the infants looked so funny. "They generally take a dislike to

vegetables later on," explained the Gardeness; "now those over there,"

pointing to a bed of 18-carrots, "are as good as gold. But we must not

linger here. You shall have a peep at the orchard, and visit the

Counting House; then you must be quick and make your choice."

In the orchard were only boy babies, some sweet-tempered, others sour.

The Gardeness wouldn't recommend a gooseberry one, for it was apt to

grow up silly. There were some rosy, apple-cheeked ones, but they looked

_all_ cheek. Little gipsy-faced babies peeped with black eyes from out

of the blackberry bushes; whilst in the fruit and nut trees close by

were many pairs of hard-headed little twins, all Philips and

Philippines.

"There's no time," observed the Gardeness, "to visit the Indian garden,

or the Chinese, or the others; I should like to have shown you some

quaint little baby girls called Peach Blossom in the Japanese garden.

But after all, I suppose you prefer an English one? They are generally

chosen according to climate." And seeing Monica smile and nod, she

hurried her off to the Counting House.

Monica had not been considering at all what she should choose, for she

had lost her heart to that first little Rose baby.

Very soon they reached their destination--a long, low building.

"Listen!" said the Gardeness, drawing her to an open window. "They are

actually quarrelling over it again!" There was a fearful hubbub going on

inside, above which could be distinguished--

"If one times six is six--six times one must be one! So that fat infant

weighs more than one and six!"

"Ah!" exclaimed her guide, "a stupid wrangle! No wonder that complaints

arise, and that the children don't always arrive at their destinations

in time. It causes no end of bother. Pass in!" The noise ceased, and in

the enormous room hundreds of babies freshly gathered from the garden

were being numbered and ticketed by a regular little army of miniature

hospital nurses, who received instructions from their superiors standing

behind the counter. As she entered, Monica heard that No. 47,859,056--a

dear little Indian baby--was to be forwarded to some strange-sounding

address in Calcutta, where it was expected in 27 days, 7 hours, 48

minutes, and 11.5 seconds (very business-like, but it would have been

simpler to say that day next month, for it was a lunar month).

As it was carried away, Monica and her guide followed and entered the

Packing and Forwarding Department, and saw it wrapped up in cabbage

leaves, packed in one of the numerous bandboxes which lined the walls,

and gently warned that if it cried much it would crack its voice. Then

the box was labelled "FRAGILE! WITH CARE!" and put down a trap-door in

the floor, where it disappeared from view.

The babies were being brought in rapidly, packed with all despatch, and

each received advice, such as, to sleep as much as it could after the

journey; when bored, to suck its thumb; to try and get its own way

whenever possible; and when it disapproved, to express the same in the

usual manner.

Immediately they got outside the Gardeness advised Monica, as her

parents were well-to-do, to choose a set of twins, which were not

welcome everywhere, and thus save them being planted on a poor family,

for they had to be got off somehow, so were always sent (as if by

mistake) where least expected. But Monica mentioned her choice, and

begged very hard for it. So the Gardeness took the bandbox from her,

bade her wait behind a tree, and with that little toss of the head went

to gather the Rose baby which had been sent for in so unheard-of a way.

Monica waited there so long that she became very anxious.

At last the Gardeness returned, pale and out of breath, hurriedly warned

her not to let in any cold air on to the child, which was packed all

snug and comfortable in the bandbox, and, above all, to make all speed

or she would meet some one she wouldn't like, showed her a short cut to

the boundary, kissed her hand, and was gone.

Monica, trembling all over with excitement, hastened away with her

precious burden, the difference in weight being scarcely perceptible.

She ran quickly towards the spot where she had left the airship, quickly

placed her treasure and herself inside, and had just touched the "drop

spring" when the Man in the Moon appeared, approaching slowly. His face

was turned fully towards her, and looked quite different from what it

had been before, calm and expressionless. But she did not trust it, and

was thankful when she pushed off and felt the airship was moving away.

Feeling safe at last, Monica smiled in triumph; with one hand she raised

her bandbox on high, with the other she waved a farewell. Then the Man,

as if in protest, lifted his arm so that his face once more was hidden

in gloom.

And Monica felt herself dropping, dropping rapidly into the blackness of

the icy cold night.

* * * * *

She was thinking: "My book says that no one on earth has ever seen the

other side of the moon, so no one knows what on earth is on the other

side of it. That's why Grandnurse couldn't answer my questions

properly--and the Man wouldn't. Perhaps even he has never seen the

Garden of Babies, as he was far too tall to enter that small cave. How

lucky I found it all out for myself!"--when, with a great start she came

to earth and confusedly recognised the lighted windows of her home. How

she got the airship back into its shed and how she entered the nursery

window she never quite remembered. Throwing back the heavy curtain from

the window seat, without noticing Grandnurse, who was in the room,

Monica took off her coat and cap, hurriedly placed them in the

night-nursery, ran back, and peeped eagerly under the lid of the bandbox

on the table. It was empty!! "Goodness gracious me, Missie!" cried

Grandnurse. "Not put yourself to bed yet!"

[Illustration: _The Man lifted his arm so that his face was once more

hidden in gloom_]

"Oh, Grandnurse, what _have_ you done with the new baby?" asked Monica

piteously, great tears brimming over her eyes.

"They must always be unpacked at once, you know, without a moment's

delay. Come and see, my Poppets, for I'm sure you won't rest without,"

added the kind old woman, leading her away.

And there, in a dressing-room, in a bassinette, already cosily asleep

but still sucking its thumb, Monica beheld with rapture the tiny Rose

baby she had chosen in that lovely garden high up in the moon--in

Cloudland far away.

THE END

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