At length we reached the “place.” It was a circle of velvet grass, bright as the first blades of spring, delicate as fine sea-ferns. The sunlight, falling down the shaft between the hemlocks, flooded it with a softened light and made the forest round about look like deep purple velvet. My little godchild stood in the midst and raised her wand impressively.
“This is my place,” she said, with a sort of wonderful gladness in her tone. “This is where I come to the fairy balls. Do you see them?”
“See what?” whispered one tiny boy.
“The fairies.”
There was a silence. The older boy pulled at my skirt.
“Do YOU see them?” he asked, his voice trembling with expectancy.
“Indeed,” I said, “I fear I am too old and wicked to see fairies, and yet—are their hats red?”
“They are,” laughed my little girl. “Their hats are red, and as small—as small!” She held up the pearly nail of her wee finger to give us the correct idea.
“And their shoes are very pointed at the toes?”
“Oh, very pointed!”