And Pinkie was so well versed in making a fairies’ dancing ground, and she appeared so mysteriously,—apparently from nowhere at all! Oh, if it should be! And then, that would explain the secret part of it,—for fairies always want to be kept secret. But on the other hand, that pink kilted dress of starched linen! Fairies always wore gauzy robes, and carried wands, and had wings. Well, yes, that was the popular notion, but who had seen them, to know for sure?
These thoughts chased through Dolly’s mind as she sat at the supper table, and Aunt Rachel soon noticed the child’s absorption.
“What’s the matter, dearie?” she asked; “aren’t you well?”
“Oh, yes, Auntie; I—I was just thinking.”
“I know what’s the matter with Dollums,” said Dick, a little shamefacedly. “It’s ’cause Jack Fuller and I played leap-frog and things she didn’t like, and so she went off by herself, and was lonesome. I’m sorry, Dolly.”
“Why, Dick Dana!” exclaimed his twin; “it wasn’t that a bit! I’m glad you had fun with Jack, and I didn’t care a spick-speck! I had a lovely time myself.”
“Where were you, dear?” asked Aunt Abbie.
“In the wood, with my two big dolls,” said Dolly, truthfully, but she had a strange feeling of dishonesty.
She had never had a secret before; had never told anything except the whole truth; and the part truth, as she had told it now, troubled her conscience.
Yet she had promised Pinkie not to tell about her, so whether Pinkie was fairy or little girl, Dolly felt herself bound by her promise.