"'Tis the Land of Little People, where the happy children play,
And the things they know and see there are so wonderful and grand—
Things that wiser, older folks cannot know or understand.
In the woods they meet the fairies, find the giants in their caves,
See the palaces of cloudland, and the mermen in the waves,
Know what all the birdies sing of, hear the secrets of the flowers—
For the Land of Little People is another world than ours."
Anon.
So this is the little gypsy Blanche has been telling me about!"
Such was Mr. Forester's greeting to Marjory when she went to Braeside on a return visit.
Marjory was not sure that she liked being called a gypsy. That dark hair of hers was always a sore point, but she was quite certain that she did not like the kiss which Mr. Forester bestowed upon her in all kindness of heart. To begin with, she did not like being kissed by strangers; and secondly, if the said strangers happened to possess moustaches, it made their offence the greater. Mr. Forester was a stranger, and, moreover, was the proud owner of a long and silky moustache, so Marjory felt that she had some excuse for her resentment.
"'Don't like being called a gypsy, and don't like being kissed' written large all over her face—eh, Blanche?" said Mr. Forester mischievously.
"Papa, you are a horrid tease. Go away and leave us in peace. I don't wonder Marjory doesn't like your nasty, tickly kisses."
"Oh dear, please don't send me away," he said in mock dismay. "Mayn't I stay if I promise to be very, very good?"
"You must ask Marjory."
Marjory's reply was to burst out laughing.
"Ah, that's better," said Mr. Forester. "Now we're all quite happy. Sit down, both of you, and listen to me."