An inner impulse rent the veil
Of his old husk, from head to tail
Came out clear plates of sapphire mail.
—Tennyson.
Ruth lay in the grass, under the old willow tree, watching a dainty little creature with a pale green body and four gauzy wings flashing with all the tints of the rainbow.
“What a beautiful dragon fly,” she said, half under her breath. “I never saw one so lovely before. I wonder if it is a dragon fly. Do you think it is, Belinda?”
“I am not a dragon fly,” came in answer from the dainty creature herself. “I’m a lacewing. Why don’t you use your eyes? It’s about time you learned something.”
“I do want to learn,” said Ruth meekly. “I am trying all the time. I wish you would tell me things. I thought you were prettier than most dragon flies.”
Mrs. Lacewing looked pleased. “Now you show your taste,” she said, “and I am quite willing to help you. Just wait a little while, and see what happens. Then if you don’t like it, well——” And without waiting to say more, or to let Ruth thank her, she was off.
“I think she means to come back,” said Ruth, expecting, she scarcely knew what, “and it will be nice, I am sure. Oh, Belinda, isn’t it just like living in Fairyland, since we can hear what they talk about? There! what did I tell you! It is Fairyland.”