Diamond sat down on a stool at the head of Nanny's bed. She laid her hand in his. No one else of her old acquaintance had been near her.
Suddenly a little voice called aloud—
“Won't Mr. Raymond tell us a story?”
“Oh, yes, please do! please do!” cried several little voices which also were stronger than the rest. For Mr. Raymond was in the habit of telling them a story when he went to see them, and they enjoyed it far more than the other nice things which the doctor permitted him to give them.
“Very well,” said Mr. Raymond, “I will. What sort of a story shall it be?”
“A true story,” said one little girl.
“A fairy tale,” said a little boy.
“Well,” said Mr. Raymond, “I suppose, as there is a difference, I may choose. I can't think of any true story just at this moment, so I will tell you a sort of a fairy one.”
“Oh, jolly!” exclaimed the little boy who had called out for a fairy tale.
“It came into my head this morning as I got out of bed,” continued Mr. Raymond; “and if it turns out pretty well, I will write it down, and get somebody to print it for me, and then you shall read it when you like.”