Chapter II: Princess Golden Hair

The metropolis of Dreamland presented a most glorious spectacle of magnificence and beauty to the wondering eyes of Roland Trent, as the fairy boat glided into the lake near the city. Beneath a fine marble colonnade, supported by pillars of jasper, he beheld a crowd of people, composed chiefly of Ministers of State and the nobles of the King, standing ready to give him welcome, while beyond these dignitaries a great square was filled with his Majesty’s Guards, armed cap-à-pié in silver armour, and surrounded by lithe, gay figures, who flitted to and fro like gorgeous butterflies in the sunlight.

The Australian youth was amazed at the dazzling beauty of the ladies, who gathered round him as he landed, with loud cries. Some of them even went so far out of the rule of good breeding and etiquette in their reception as to embrace and almost smother him with kisses. But there are no Mrs. Grundys in Elfland, and so the dames enjoyed themselves with the freedom and the innocence of children. With waving banners and bands of music, which sounded to his ears like so many tinkling musical boxes, our hero was escorted by a troop of silver-clad Guards to the palace of Bo-Peep. Grander than anything that ever entered the mind of that famous architect, Sir Christopher Wren, rose the glittering domes and lofty peaks of the fairy King’s palace. Through a labyrinth of budding roses perfuming the air around; by gold and silver fountains in full play, and whose soft cadence fell upon the ear like angels’ whispers; beneath a natural arch of mighty trees, every one of which held a thronged choir of winged choristers warbling forth a jubilee; and onward, amid glories and beauties unknown to the hosts of the waking world, into the presence of Bo-Peep. No comparison in this sea-bordered city would help to convey the faintest conception of the pomp and splendour of the King’s reception-hall. Nature and Art had here combined, and the blended effect was sublime. Not the array of nobles nor the throng of superbly dressed ladies, through whom he passed, nay, not even the throne itself, ablaze with jewels and precious stones, which circled in the elfin monarch as the ring of a magic lantern, had any attraction for the young stranger. His eyes had fallen upon a young creature of enchanting loveliness at the King’s side, and he had become spellbound thereby.

Poet or painter never dreamed of such a vision of beauty. Not the sunset glow had a richer tint than the long glossy hair of Bo-Peep’s only daughter. She was named “Princess Golden Hair”; and well did she merit the name, for it was the most glorious golden hair that mortal eye had ever seen. So Roland Trent thought as he was led forward and seated by her side.

Here where the laws of Nature (as we recognise them) are altered and suspended, the Princess and the mortal wanderer became enamoured of each other instantly.

Oh! the power, the irresistible charm of love! How it glowed in the eyes of Princess Golden Hair, and made the bewitching face yet more charming! Like the clear notes of a flute, only infinitely softer and more thrilling, her voice came upon his ears: “Welcome, oh, my Prince—lord of my being!—welcome to Dreamland!”

What mattered the cheers of the people and the great speech from the fairy King, and the grand banquet that followed—what mattered the thousand surprises and the wonderful things that encountered him at every turn? There was no fascination like the lovely Princess.

Glorious light and sunshine reigned here eternally. Roland watched in vain for the approach of eve and darkness; but gloom came not. It was one never-ceasing day.

By order of Bo-Peep, our hero was attired in rich robes softer than silken velvet, which emitted a rose-coloured glow, mingled with a delicious perfume, that by some mysterious power gave him a keener zest for pleasure and enjoyment. Go where he would, the King’s daughter was ever at his side.

What bliss to be with her on the bright lake, seated beneath a canopy of roses in the royal barge; what sensations he felt with his head pillowed on her lap, and her snow-white fingers toying with his curls!

“The sun never fades in this enchanting valley?” he asked.

“No,” she replied softly. “The great light is our life. Dulness is destruction in Dreamland. We are only creatures of an hour, that is all.”

Oh, what witchery in the low, thrilling voice! Creatures of an hour, forsooth. Take care, Princess Golden hair! Take care.

“Your people are very beautiful, my Princess; but thou art fairer than a summer dream,” he responded gaily.

“Flatterer, I and my people are but as dreams,” she answered, smiling. “All thou see’st here of brightness and splendour are merely passing visions, nothing more.”

“Thou art more real and enchanting, dear Rosebud, than any dream that has haunted me.”

“Nay, adored stranger, mock me not,” said Golden Hair. “I am as the wind, which fills our sail—here, there, then gone for ever. Life with me is but a breath. But thou—thou wilt live when the wind and the vast sun, which giveth our race life and motion, are fled for ever.”

“Dear Princess,” and he caught her hand within his own, looking into her eyes the while, “Love is not a breath, a sunbeam. It is mightier than the wind, and more powerful than the combined forces of sea and air. Didst thou ever love, sweet maiden?”

What soft diffused light, glinting from the rich window of some ancient cathedral, ever shed such a rosy glow as was seen for one brief instant upon her face?

“Oh, Love has come with thee from beyond the Western Mountain,” she answered quietly.

“And thou hast felt its presence?”

“Ay, in thee. Yet thou hast brought a demon with thee also,” she replied.

“The sprite Whiskerkiss; of course, I remember.”

“Nay, not Whiskerkiss; but a gnome a thousand times more terrible than the monster of the Barrier.”

“And what is that, Princess?”

“Pain,” replied Golden Hair.

“What! has Pain never entered into this realm?” he inquired with amazement.

“Never.”

“Wonderful!” he ejaculated. “Had my charming Princess ever the toothache?”

The ringing laugh which burst from her lips was like the carol of a canary on a June morning.

“Nor the whooping-cough or—or the measles?” he added, smiling at her excessive merriment.

“Stop, stop!” she cried, looking at him with a wilful light in her large eyes, that held him as a spell. “The words thou hast uttered are unknown to me, even as Pain was unknown to me ere I saw thee.”

A cloud fell over his handsome face at her words, which did not escape Golden Hair, for she added quickly, “Lord of my life, Love and Pain are twinborn, and go hand-in-hand, but the one is so beautiful that it destroys even while it creates the other. Thou seemest to me all love. Tell me, are all thy race like thee?”

“Fair Princess,” he replied gravely, “beyond the Mountain Barrier from whence I came the people are as varied as the hues on yonder peak. Some there are who feel not love. Many suffer pain willingly in the service of a powerful world-god called Money. Amid the many fetishes who are honoured and exalted, none are more esteemed than this. At his word mighty empires rise in the wilderness, oceans are bridged, space changed into a willing slave.”

“Money is a mighty demon,” answered Princess Golden Hair.

“Yes, lady,” continued Roland. “Money is mighty, but ere now he has lent his power to an evil spirit called Hate, who going broadcast among the races of men has incited them to gather together and destroy each other without cause.”

“Hate is a monster, uglier than Pain,” replied the fairy.

“Ay, and he is invariably assisted by three other wicked powers known as Murder, Slander, and Malice.”

“Poor lost people!” cried the gentle Princess. “Is there no good genii to do battle with these wicked ones?”

“Oh yes; the renowned champion Sympathy has unfurled his banner to meet the hosts of evil in the world; and by-and-by the people who have groaned groans from their birth shall live as serene and peaceful as the shadows on this lake. And now, sweet love, I would fain close my eyes in repose, under the melody of thy lute.”

Sweetly fell the cadence over the still waters. Goldenly shone the domes and peaks of the marble palaces, as Roland Trent dreamed.

Shall we wake him out of his glorious vision? Nay; let him slumber on. He will open his eyes soon enough upon the realities of this sober empire at the Antipodes.

A CROOKED SIXPENCE.

Patter, patter, splash, splash, drip, drip, fell the rain on the housetops, down the waterspouts, and along the narrow streets of the New South Wales capital. A dismal evening to be abroad; the fierce wind playing antic tricks with the people returning home from work, by driving the rain full in their faces, turning their umbrellas inside out, and compelling many to seek temporary shelter beneath verandahs and the projecting gables of high buildings.

The tempest of wind and rain didn’t appear to trouble a small, dirty-looking urchin who had taken up his quarters in a sheltered nook at the corner of one of the main thoroughfares of the city, and where he crouched, watching the vehicles, with their gleaming lamps, dash onward through the mud and wet. The poor child’s clothes would have suited a warmer temperature than the keen wind and rain; but he indulged in an occasional short run beneath the portico to keep his blood in circulation. It was while taking his trot to and fro that the boy’s attention was attracted by the stoppage of an omnibus, which drew close up to the curb to allow an old gentleman to alight therefrom. He was a portly old fellow, buttoned up in a portly overcoat, and he carried a portly umbrella. The boy noted this by the light of the gas lamp as the passenger went by him, and he also noted a small dark object lying on the wet pavement, not a yard away, that was not there before.

“Hallo! What’s this? A pocket-book with money in it. That gentleman who passed has lost it. Hi, sir, hi!” And away ran the urchin in pursuit of the elderly gentleman. The little fellow overtook him, after a good chase against the pelting rain, which soaked his thin garments through and through. “I say, sir, hi!”

“Be off, boy! I never give to beggars,” said the old gentleman, turning round upon the lad briskly.

“I ain’t a beggar,” answered the little fellow with spirit. “I ran after you to know if yer lost anything just now.”

“Lost! lost! not a——I say, by Jove! you—you don’t mean to——why, if it is not gone, and I would not lose it for——”

The actions of the portly gentleman were somewhat singular. He first passed his hand hastily over the breast of his buttoned-up coat, then he threw down his open umbrella on the pavement—which the wind carried away in a moment—tore open his clothing violently, and dived into the recesses of a capacious inner pocket. Then he began a frenzied sort of war-dance in front of the boy. “I had it in my hand not ten minutes since,” he cried excitedly; “and I can swear to it before the Mayor and all the J. P.’s in the colony. Mark that.”

“Mark what, sir?”

“Why, I have told you—haven’t I? My pocket-book, full of——Ah! I see you have found it, my good, honest lad,” he went on, altering his tone, and recovering his composure as the child held out the bloated purse to its owner. “Full of documents, boy; of no use to anybody but me. Thank you for restoring it.”

He snatched at the recovered treasure, and hastily unfastened the clasp to see if any of its contents had been disturbed, revealing to the youth some of the documents, which appeared marvellously like bank-notes, and a good many of them.

“It’s all right, my little man. Stop! What is your name?”

“Eddy Wilkinson, sir.”

“Eddy Wilkinson, eh? Where d’ye live, boy? Where’s your father and mother?”

“Father’s dead; and we live in Baker’s Court, Redfern,” answered Eddy, turning to depart.

“Stay one moment. I like to encourage honesty. Honesty is the best policy, eh?” cried the old gentleman, fumbling in his vest pocket. “Here is sixpence for you, and to-morrow, if you call at the office of Balam Bros., Woolbrokers, York Street, I will consider about a further reward. Now run off home out of the wet.”

“It’s very mean of him, so it is, only to give me sixpence for finding such a lot of money,” muttered Eddy, as he trotted homeward through the storm. “Well, well, I must not grumble; sixpences are sixpences these ’ere times—so mother says. But what a thin, battered old coin it is!” he cried, holding it up beneath the glare of a gas lamp. “I believe it’s a bad one!” and the boy closed his sharp teeth on it the next moment.

“Oh dear! Oh!” shrieked a voice, which seemed to issue out of Eddy’s own mouth. The poor child dropped the coin instantly, and ran for his life; but he soon recovered from his surprise, and returned to where the sixpence lay on the shining flag in the full light of the street lamp.

“Surely it wasn’t you who cried out just now?” said Eddy, apostrophising it.

“Yes, it was, and you have hurt me very much, biting me in such a savage way,” replied the crooked sixpence reprovingly. “Here have I been rudely tossed and hustled from pouch to pocket, and hand to hand, to try and serve you, and you show your gratitude by saying I’m bad. For shame, Eddy Wilkinson.”

“Indeed, I’m very sorry, ma’am,” rejoined Eddy, astonished and trembling all over at the strange incident.

“I’m not of the feminine gender, Eddy. Don’t call me ‘ma’am,’ please.”

“Very well, sir,” apologised the boy.

“That’s worse; I’m not a gentleman.”

“What are you, then?” asked the lad, in an impatient tone.

“Neither one nor the other, yet I’m a little of both. If you turn me on this side, I’m a man; roll me over, and I’m a woman. Still I’m incongruous, and only a sixpence,” replied the coin.

“You’re very thin, and worn, and of no earthly use to anybody, I think,” said Eddy boldly, “except the banks, who are taking worn-out customers like you.”

“I shall prove very useful to you, Eddy, so don’t insult me. On me, thin as I am, you will build a stupendous fortune.”

“Oh, let us be joyful!” cried Eddy, shaking the rain from his rags.

“And when you grow to be a man, and are elected Mayor of this city,” added the sixpence, “you will wear me on your watchchain as a relic, to remind you of your first advanced step in life.”

“You old humbug! I’ve a good mind to pick you up and spend you at the confectioner’s over the way,” answered Eddy, laughing.

“They won’t have smooth money there,” rejoined the coin. “Take my advice, and put me in your pocket out of the wet. As you said just now, I’m very thin, and I can’t stand the rain.”

“What shall I do with you then?”

“Put me by in that old teapot in the cupboard at home until you get another of my race to keep me company,” answered the voice of the crooked sixpence earnestly. “Remember, boy, a penny saved is a penny gained, for it is by such small beginnings that people have amassed fortunes to benefit humanity, and by saving pennies and sixpences, little boys who have no fathers to work for them have been enabled to assist their widowed mothers and to make their home comfortable and happy.”

“That is quite true. I’m sure, I often wish I could keep my mother, who is always working,” answered the child in a sad tone.

“Your wish will be gratified, Eddy, if you only take my advice,” said the voice, in the same resolute accent. “You are ten years old, and you ought to begin to earn money. The gentleman whose purse you restored wants an office boy. When he sees you to-morrow he will employ you, because the prompt manner in which you returned his pocket-book has made a good impression on him. Be careful to maintain and strengthen that effort by being trustworthy, honest, and truthful; above all, never forget the old teapot in the cupboard, where I shall be ready to welcome every new-comer placed therein.”

“I’m so glad I’m going to work to help mother, and I’ll not forget what you have said to me,” replied the boy.

“I am fully aware of it, Eddy Wilkinson,” responded the voice modestly. “I have seen a great deal of human nature in my travels, and I have noted that people—both old and young—rarely forget what I say to them. You must know that I never came out of the Mint. I was born of a good old fairy family on the Queensland border. From my childhood I hated Money, and was constantly railing against it and its evil influences, until our chief, Fen, transformed me into a sixpence as a penalty for my abuse of Mammon. In less than a month I went from the dainty purse of the Governor’s lady to the dirty fob of a sweep. Once I was the only coin in the pocket of a poor solitary swagman travelling in the bush, who was attacked by a robber and foully murdered; but had you seen the murderer’s face after rifling my master’s pouch, and to find only me, you would have said, as I did, that crime brings its own punishment. Again, a very proud man dropped me on the pavement, and disdaining to stoop for me, there I lay for hours trampled by the crowd passing up and down. A poor, despairing, wretch, without a home, without a friend—without even the smallest means of procuring a meal—hurried with feverish haste through the by-ways of this great city, to end his life and his misery in the river; but he discovered me in his path. Weary and faint with long fasting, I supplied him with food and a night’s lodging. With the return of day came other thoughts and fresh resolves, and so the man was saved the awful act of self-destruction, and lived to bless the old crooked sixpence.”

And so did little Eddy Wilkinson, my dear children. The firm of “Balam Brothers & Wilkinson” is one of the most sound and thriving concerns in the colonies. The junior partner has just been elected to the civic chair of Sydney, and when he dies he intends to bequeath the crooked sixpence to the Museum.

THE BALL IN THE DELL.

Tottie Maybush, of Melgrove on the hills, was never known to tell an untruth. Yet little kind-hearted Tottie could not be certain whether she had fallen asleep and dreamed all about the fairies’ ball, or the spirits of the dell had carried her off bodily to their annual festival. On one of our beautiful Australian midsummer nights, the dark-blue sky, and the earth beneath it, illumined by a full, radiant moon, Tottie was seated under a large fig-tree in the garden, playing with Sultan, the retriever puppy. The child’s parents had gone to visit a neighbour; therefore there was no one at home save Jane, the servant, who had promised Tottie that she might remain up till they returned.

No one can say—not even Tottie herself—how it was she came to leave her seat and the puppy, and stroll all alone down the long walk beyond the orchard, until she emerged upon a sloping lawn that dipped with an easy fall to the edge of the river. The round, full moon overhead cast thin streaks and broad bars of soft light athwart the branches of the tall trees, which formed triangles, circles, and crosses, about the sombre trunks, and lay like scraps of burnished steel about her path. Out on the mossy bank the moon’s focus seemed to rest on one great patch of light, whereon stood a group of small, slender, puny creatures, drawn up in two lines, like a regiment of soldiers on parade. Tiny and insignificant as they appeared, Tottie could not help observing their costumes, which were both elegant and superb. Every rich and varied flower in the botanical world of the Southern Hemisphere had lent its bloom and beauty to adorn their persons, while beyond their ranks, on the placid bosom of the river, sat six large, white swans, attached to the car of state, which glowed and sparkled under the beams of the moon like a mass of sapphires.

The moment Tottie appeared, the King of the fairies stepped forth and addressed her,—

“Mortal, you are invited to our Jubilee in the dell. Xylophagus, my Queen, has sent her barge of state, together with this gallant escort, to convey you thither. Fear not to come with us; we are your friends and your slaves for the hour. Gentlemen, let your royal barge approach.”

The elfin monarch waved his hand, when instantly there arose upon the air a choral melody from the fairy boat, far surpassing the song of birds. No warbling bulbul, no melting note of dulcimer floating o’er the waters at still midnight, ever ravished the senses, or soothed with tones so liquid soft, as the strains which fell upon the ears of Tottie Maybush as she was borne aboard by the elves. They placed her on a couch of softest down, fringed by a border of wild rose leaves, and two lovely fairy ladies fanned her with perfumed fans, which not only warded off the mosquitoes, but lulled Tottie into a passive state, wherein she was utterly powerless to move or act, yet which left her sense of hearing and observation free and unfettered. What engines made of mortal hands could propel a boat so swiftly and noiselessly as those proud, vigorous swans, who glided onward down the river with the elfin barque and its freight as if the whole thing had been no heavier than a gossamer? What mortal ears could conceive from out the world of sound such enchanting harmony? It was the silvery lullaby of Fairyland, that our Australian sprites might chant to some fretful changeling they had adopted and sought to hush to sleep.

And now the view opens upon a magnificent glade, with here and there a huge eucalyptus standing out in bold relief like a grim giant on guard. Here the elfin King and his grotesque retinue land, and escort their mortal guest across the velvet sward and through a grove of trees, which terminates in a deep dell—the scene of the fairy ball.

Upon a verdant, natural carpet, softer than velvet pile, stood two lines of young trees, from the roots of which the vines of the purple sarsaparilla had shot upward along the trunks and amongst the branches, and there bending with a graceful slope had met and entwined, and so had formed a long trellis-work roof, where the moon beamed through in twice ten thousand rays into the gallery beneath.

The elfin King conducted Tottie into this primeval hall, where Queen Xylophagus was seated with her ladies on a bank of wild violets. The child was quite bewildered at the wildly odd scene that met her gaze. The gallery was hung round with myriads of glow-worms and fire-flies, which illumined the place with a soft, subdued light, and shed a sparkling sheen on the parti-coloured robes of the gay creatures which moved to and fro about her. Here, as in the higher world of mortals, the ladies fanned and flirted, while the gentlemen flattered and were smilingly attentive; but there was no lurking devil behind it all with the elves. They, at least, were genuine.

“Approach, O mortal, and kiss my hand,” cried the fairy Queen, rising and saluting Tottie. “In this dell thou shalt be fed on honeyed words. We will deck thee with jewels brought from hidden caves and gathered in bowers of green, where loop the clustered vines. Pure pearls of may-dew shall adorn thy fair young brow like summer’s fruited gems, ripe and mellow.”

Tottie tried to thank her Majesty.

“These are my ladies,” continued the Queen, pointing to several lovely fays beside her. “Moppet, stand forth. This is our lady of the robes, who supplies a new dress for our person every morning.”

A fair, wee creature rose from her seat and kissed Tottie.

“Moth and Poppy, two of my daughters, who are about to be married—Poppy, the youngest, to Prince Cornflower, and her sister, to the celebrated Grimalkin of the Hills,” said her Majesty, introducing the members of the household. “Those three ladies in purple, who are teasing that old gentleman with the crutch, are Gloze, Geneva, and Moss, the King’s first cousins—old maiden ladies who have never been married, and who delight in annoying the bachelors.”

Perhaps it was fortunate for poor Tottie Maybush that a great noise at the other end of the gallery interrupted the Queen, otherwise she would probably have been smothered by the warm-hearted beings presented to her. The commotion was caused by the arrival of several ambassadors from the vast realm of Nature. Here advanced the representative of the Forest with stately dignity; then followed the Wind, whose tread shook the roof of the ball-room; and after him came a long procession of birds. The eagle headed one column, the wild turkey another, after which came parrots and plovers, quails, snipe, and magpies, while the jolliest of them all—the great kingfisher—brought up the rear. Round and round the hall they trooped until the whole host found suitable perches among the thick foliage of the trees, where they gazed down in wonder upon the throng beneath.

Amid a deep silence which had fallen upon the place the elfin King rose to his feet, and in a sharp, clear, piping tone, said, “We are all assembled; let the dance begin.”

Suddenly the throng of birds struck up a wild medley of song, whereupon the fairies, bounding to their feet, began a fantastic dance around the grotto. Such a quick, changing whirl of steps and leaps and varied motions it would be difficult to conceive. Circles here, confusion there, up and down in mazes, until, the feathered band piping higher and wilder, the eye was unable to follow the labyrinth of gay creatures in their mad career. “The witches at Benevento” were as nothing compared to the furious freaks and vagaries of the elves; but in the midst of it all there was heard the booming of a bell, and—like enchantment—darkness and quiet fell upon the sylvan festivity in the twinkling of an eye.

“Tottie! Miss Tottie, do get up and come to bed!” cried Jane. “Your pa and ma have returned home!”

ELSIE.

If you were to search the whole of Australia you could not find a more beautiful place than “Hawthorne,” the residence of little Elsie Barton Elsie’s father was a merchant with plenty of money. He therefore erected a large house, a little way in the country, away from the dust and noise of the city. The building stood on a lofty hill, surrounded by trees and a lovely garden, with a broad river flowing down below among crags and thick foliage, and where the water seemed like a great mirror fixed in an emerald frame. Little Elsie loved music, and was always ready every morning to begin her music lessons without being scolded and driven to them, as some disobedient and naughty girls and boys are. It was a bright morning, and Elsie raised up the window to admit the fresh breeze and the sunshine, and then sat down to the piano. She had scarcely touched the keys, however, when she was startled at hearing some one pronounce her name. The voice which Elsie heard calling her was not a gruff or a rough voice by any means, neither was it shrill or disagreeable in its tone; yet it was decidedly unlike any other voice she had ever heard before. It seemed more like the tinkling of a tiny silver bell than anything else, save that the utterance was clear and decided, and sent a thrill, half of fear, half of surprise, through the frame of the listener.

“Elsie—Elsie Barton!” repeated the voice.

Elsie turned about quickly, and stood amazed to observe upon the toilet-table near the window the tiniest and most grotesque creature in the world. The form was that of an old woman. Such a wee, graceful old lady, with a lithe, slight figure, no higher than the bottle of perfume near her. She was attired in a purple robe, green baize shoes, and a shining cloak of the same colour, with a hood attached, but which she had thrown back, disclosing her yellow hair. She supported herself with a crutch stick, about the size of a wax match.

“Well, my dear, you are no doubt astonished at seeing me?” said the old lady, leaning on her staff, and looking at Elsie with a smile. “Pray take out those horrid long spikes you call pins from the pincushion, and I will sit down and rest myself, for I am really tired.”

There was nothing at all repulsive in the manner or the aspect of this strange visitor. So little Elsie, overcoming her wonder and amazement, prepared the pincushion and seated the old lady thereon, then inquired in a respectful tone how she came into the room.

“Through the window, of course, my dear,” answered the creature, smiling. “We fairies come and go at divers times and seasons, and exactly how and when we please.”

“Are you a fairy—a real fairy?” cried Elsie, approaching and gazing with deep interest on the little lady before her.

“Certainly, child. Couldn’t you see that? We Australian elves are not so tall as our kindred over the ocean, but we are fairies notwithstanding.”

“I—I have read of the fairies,” said Elsie shyly, “but I have never seen any of them before.”

“Oh, my dear, it’s a great favour for any mortal to see us. It is only good children who have the privilege. Do you know why I came here this morning?” said the old lady, fanning herself with a rose-leaf.

“No. Pray tell me.”

“A poor little boy, who has been dreadfully hurt, and who lives in the little hut near the quarry, sent me to you,” replied the fairy.

“Is it little Harry, the widow’s boy?”

“The same, my dear.”

“I will go this moment,” she replied; and running down the stairs, Elsie took her sun-bonnet from the rack in the hall, and joined the elfin in the garden. Without speaking another word the fairy led the way down the hill, and away along the sunny banks of the river, and onward to a secluded dell, where Nature had exhausted the skill of simplicity. The earth undulating into tiny hillocks, was clothed with a tender verdure as soft and green as moss. The deep blue waters rolled by with a hushed ripple, that was more soothing than silence, and a blueness that rivalled the deep azure of the skies. On one side rose great masses of rugged rocks, and these and all the trees around were draped with great masses of clematis. From the roots of these there crept along the ground the beautiful vines of the purple sarsaparilla, and the grass all around was gemmed with wild violets and the blossoms of a delicately pencilled little wild orchid. The scent of the clematis made the air heavy with perfume, and the song of birds came with added music from the other side of the stream.

In this pleasant spot were gathered together a troop of elves—little, transparent people, dressed in scarlet, and blue, and amber, others in white, shining robes, and with green jewels and wreaths decking their golden curls.

Elsie Barton stood spellbound with amazement at the wonderful sight before her. Many a time she had strolled through the lovely dell previously, but she had never met either fay or sprite. While she stood with mouth agape, the old lady fairy whispered in her ear and led the child away out of the glen and over the river, where the blue smoke from the cottage wherein lay the sick boy could be seen ascending in a thin, spiral column up toward heaven, as if bridging the void between the suffering child and the ministering angels of God.

Within sight of the hut, the fairy halted, and seating herself upon a mushroom, said in a sweet, piping tone: “I cannot venture farther, Elsie. We elves are but the emblem of good thoughts and benevolent deeds. Whoever thinks least of self can see us palpably everywhere, because we are beneficence personified. Wherever there may be an act of kindness to be done, we seek out the kindly disposed to do it; but it is death to us to look upon any other mortals, save the humane and kindly hearted. Bend down, my dear, so that I may kiss you. Now, good-bye,” and the tiny lady vanished in a moment.

It was a very rude dwelling built of slabs, and almost devoid of furniture, and little Elsie Barton’s eyes filled with tears as she entered it and beheld on a bed, in one corner of the room, a boy about her own age, lying pale and ill. The poor lad had been obliged to work in a quarry, to help his widowed mother and his two little brothers, and a large stone had fallen down and had crushed one of his legs dreadfully. The brave child was sinking fast for want of generous diet and such nourishment as the widow was unable to procure for him, and so the fairy had brought kind-hearted little Elsie Barton to visit him; and Elsie helped the widow to make the sick-room more light and cosy, then went home and told her mother about the sick boy; and Mrs. Barton, after filling a basket with nice food, returned with Elsie to the cottage.

And every day for weeks Elsie Barton carried her basket of flowers and fruit, and choice morsels of dainty food for the little sufferer, until the lad grew well and strong again; and sometimes, sitting in the small country church on Sundays, the quarry boy sees her in the family pew listening with upturned face to the preacher, while through the stained windows gleam broad bars of rich and gorgeous light, which float about her as a gossamer, and surround the gentle face as with a glory tint.

THE WISHING-CAP.