“No, dear. I was listening and thinking what a pretty little story one could make out of your fairy living alone down there, and only known by her perfume.”
“Tell it, Mamma. It is time for our story, and that would be a nice one, I guess,” said Jack, who was as fond of stories as when he sat in his mother's lap and chuckled over the hero of the beanstalk.
“We don't have fairy tales on Sunday, you know,” began Jill regretfully.
“Call it a parable, and have a moral to it, then it will be all right,” put in Frank, as he shut his big book, having found what he wanted.
“I like stories about saints, and the good and wonderful things they did,” said Jill, who enjoyed the wise and interesting bits Mrs. Minot often found for her in grown-up books, for Jill had thoughtful times, and asked questions which showed that she was growing fast in mind if not in body.
“This is a true story; but I will disguise it a little, and call it 'The Miracle of Saint Lucy,'” began Mrs. Minot, seeing a way to tell her good news and amuse the children likewise.
Frank retired to the easy-chair, that he might sleep if the tale should prove too childish for him. Jill settled herself among her cushions, and Jack lay flat upon the rug, with his feet up, so that he could admire his red slippers and rest his knee, which ached.
“Once upon a time there was a queen who had two princes.”
“Wasn't there a princess?” asked Jack, interested at once.
“No; and it was a great sorrow to the queen that she had no little daughter, for the sons were growing up, and she was often very lonely.