For a moment Priscilla could not control the quivering of her lips, or choke back the tears which had forced their way up.
“I wanted to see Mr. Winter,” she gasped. “I want very much to see him, and the woman was so rude, she wouldn’t even ask him if he would see me.”
“I know; I heard her,” said the stranger sternly. “But it is all right. I am Mr. Winter. What do you want with me?”
And then when she was face to face with him, with the morose recluse, the mysterious tyrant who was going to do all sorts of unkind things to Loveday and Aaron, Priscilla could not for a moment think of anything she wanted to say.
“Please,” she stammered, wondering where she could begin, “I have come to—to—to ask you to forgive my little sister, Loveday Carlyon. I know she was mischievous, but she didn’t mean to be—she didn’t, really; she wanted to be kind to you, because they said—because—oh, because she thought you were sad and lonely, and she—and she—oh! you won’t have her punished very severely, will you, or sent to gaol? Oh, please, don’t! She will never, never do such a thing again, I know!”
“Um! She won’t, won’t she?”
“Oh no!” said Priscilla eagerly; “never! She really did think it was the piskies that put the straw there to annoy you——”
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Winter sharply. Then he added, more gently: “The idea of any one believing such rubbish in these days!”
“Loveday does,” said Priscilla earnestly—“she does, really—and—and I want her to go on believing. I did once, and it was, oh! ever so much nicer than now when I know it isn’t any use to. I wish I’d never been told there aren’t any fairies, really. When you think there are, it seems as if such lots of beautiful things may happen, you never know what, and—and it always seems as if they were going to.”
“Ay, ay, little girl,” said Mr. Winter, looking down at her thoughtfully, “it is very sad when folk don’t leave us fairies, or—or anything else to believe in. But they won’t.”