"Do finish the story. Did the mother come one day and take her son home again? And did they live happily ever after?"
"Ah, that I don't know. The story is not finished."
"Who made it up? Is it a true story?"
"Yes, it is a true one."
"Oh, do let me make an end to it, may I? I do tell stories to mother when Becca is out."
"Go ahead, then."
And lounging back in his easy chair with his pipe in his mouth, Rufus watched the expressive little face in the firelight.
"This poor son got sadder and sadder without his mother, and the little spirit—was it? No—sprite—she used to wipe his tears away and try to comfort him, but she couldn't, and so one day she flew away to his mother and whispered in her ear all about her poor, sad son. And the mother—she sat up straight in her chair, and she said, 'Tell him I'll come to him when he is ill,' so the sprite flew back, but she couldn't make the son ill though she tried hard. She put pins and stones in his coffee and tea; she pushed him downstairs to break his leg; she poured a can of cold water over him when he wasn't looking, but it was no good. And then she remembered it was God who made people ill, so she prayed to Him, and God sent the son some scarlet fever. Then he was very ill, and the doctor said he must die, so the sprite flew to his mother, and she came, and the son put his arms round her neck, and said, 'Mother, I'll be a clergyman now,' and then God made him better, and he went home and lived happily ever after."
"And what about the sprite?"
"Oh, she went back to the buttercups—she lived in one. A sprite is a fairy, isn't it?"