“What will we do now, David?” appealed Carey, when they were seated on the porch.
“You mustn’t do anything but sit still,” admonished her mother. “You’ve done more now than you are used to doing in one day.”
“Davey will tell us a story,” suggested Janey.
“Yes, please, David,” urged Carey, coming to him and resting her eyes on his inquiringly, while her little hand confidently sought his knee. Instinctively and naturally his fingers closed upon it.
Embarrassed as he was at having a strange audience, he could not resist the child’s appeal.
“She’ll like the kind that you don’t,” he said musingly to Janey, “the kind about fairies and princes.” 107
“Yes,” rejoined Carey.
So he fashioned a tale, partly from recollections of Andersen but mostly from his own fancy. As his imagination kindled, he forgot where he was. Inspired by the spellbound interest of the dainty little girl with the worshiping eyes, he achieved his masterpiece.
“Upon my word,” exclaimed Mr. Winthrop, “you are a veritable Scheherazade! You didn’t make up that story yourself?”
“Only part of it,” admitted David modestly.