"Yes."
"A once-upon-a-time story?"
"I'll try. But first you must understand that law and order are not two people. Oh, no. And they aren't anything a little girl could see—as she can see the mirror, for instance, or a chair—"
Gwendolyn looked at the mirror and the chair—thence around the room. These were the same things that had been there all the time. Now how different each appeared! There was the bed, for instance. She had never liked the bed, beautiful though it was. Yet to-day, even with the sun shining on the great panes of the wide front window, it seemed good to be lying in it. And the nursery, once a hated place—a very prison!—the nursery had never looked lovelier!
Her father went on with his explaining, low and cheerily, and as confidentially as if to a grown-up. Across from him, listening, was her mother, one soft cheek lowered to rest close to the small face half-hidden in the pillow.
When her father finished speaking, Gwendolyn gave a deep breath—of happiness and content. Then, "Moth-er!"
"Yes?"—with a kiss as light as the touch of a butterfly.
Her eyelids, all at once, seemed curiously heavy. She let them flutter down. But a drowsy smile curved the pink mouth. "Moth-er," she whispered; "moth-er, the Dearest Pretend has come true!"