Fairy Godmother deposited Maggie on the lovely blue center of the loveliest-of-all rugs—Tilda’s feet were loth to tread on any of them. Then she touched a funny little button, and, presto! it was just like Arabian Nights, excepting it wasn’t one of the genii that appeared—only a pretty, rosy-cheeked woman, in the tiniest white cap and apron. She stood in the doorway, looking so surprised at the little strangers that Tilda became suddenly conscious of the patches in her gingham frock, and the places where there should have been patches in her shoes.
“Norah,” reminded Fairy Godmother gently, “this is little Anne’s birthday, and these dear children have come to spend it with me and help to make it glad.”
“Yes, marm,” responded Norah. And Tilda followed her glance to the life-sized portrait of a wee blue-eyed baby as sweet—yes, as Maggie herself. Fairy Godmother had a little tête-à-tête with Norah, who soon left the room, turning as she went to send an assuring smile to the now welcome visitors.
Then Tilda and Maggie went to a wonderful concert—all the time staying just where they were. Ladies and gentlemen they couldn’t see at all came and sang to them, and whole orchestras and bands, all from the same mysterious little box, played music that set delicious thrills shivering down Tilda’s back, and her feet to beating time. Sousa’s band had just finished “El Capitan” when some sweet little chimes tinkled out in the hall.
“Come, Tilda.” Fairy Godmother picked up Maggie and led the way downstairs, out to the honeysuckle porch overlooking the garden.
Tilda and Maggie went to a wonderful concert—all
the time staying just where they were
There, as if the fairies had been at work, stood the dearest little table that ever was, on land or sea, with rosebuds in the middle and set for just three, with little rosebud dishes. My! but that was a party for any royal princess, cocoa with a lovely white foam on top, tiny three-cornered chicken sandwiches, ice cream and strawberries—two plates if you wanted them—frosted cake and candy besides, and milk for Maggie from a real silver cup! The only sorry part of it was baby Anne could not be there, too, for her own birthday. Probably heaven was just as nice, though Tilda could scarcely believe it.
After the “party” Maggie was tucked up cozily on the veranda couch for a nap, and Tilda was escorted to the garden to meet General Jack, Lady Gay, Baltimore Belles, American Beauties, and other celebrities, to say nothing of the pert little Pansy folk, who turned up their saucy faces at her. And Fairy Godmother said she might pick all the roses she wanted, her own self. Fancy it—dozens of them—red, white, and pink, like the grandest lady of the land! And every now and then, as Tilda stole a shy glance at Fairy Godmother’s glad face, her own beamed brighter than ever.
