He leaned toward her, very serious. “A fairy,” he said.
She slipped from the box and came toward him, her face aglow. “Where is it?” she demanded. She stood before him very straight—courage and health and belief in every line of the swift little body.
He half put out a hand, but she stirred a little and he withdrew it, leaning back in his chair and gazing with half-shut eyes into the flame. “You can’t see a fairy, you know,” he said quietly.
She had bent forward, a hand on either knee, peering intently into the fire. She straightened herself—“Don’t you see it?” she asked. “Not ever?” A disappointed look was in the eyes.
He shook his head. “They come at night, you know.”
The brown eyes searched his face. Then the curls wagged from side to side. “That’s a Brownie that comes at night,” she said reprovingly.
He looked his surprise. “Is it, indeed—a Brownie!”
She nodded. “Grannie told me.”
She came nearer and placed her little fat hand on his knee. “I like you,” she said.
He scarcely breathed and his face, as he leaned back in the chair, was very still.