"To the fairyland afar
Where the Little People are."
—Robert Louis Stevenson
Marjorie was now grown up. She looked quite different from the tiny golden-haired girl Shaun had known. She was a tall, slender young lady.
Her dimple still became a fairy ripple when she was happy. When she was cross, it still seemed a smudge of dirt.
Marjorie was often cross now. The reason was a strange one. She had too much to make her happy. She had loving parents and a beautiful home. She had many friends who adored her.
She was very beautiful, too. Everything lovely belonged to Marjorie. Even wealth was hers.
Her father gave her everything she asked for. She had an automobile. She had a beautiful glossy horse to ride.
She went to jolly parties, and all the boys wanted to dance with her. They sent her boxes of chocolate creams and rare flowers.