Marjory laughed. "Isn't that believing in them?"
"No, not really. I can't quite explain what I mean."
"I've made fairies for myself," said Marjory. "There are plenty of them in the garden, and I understand what they say. They know me quite well, and I only have to sit very quietly and hardly breathe, and I can hear them. They live in the flowers, and you can hear them ringing their tiny little bells and talking to one another, so low that it is only just a whisper."
"Do go on," urged Blanche.
"I don't know if you would be able to hear them. Peter says he can't; but then he's old and deaf, and he says he never thought of listening when he was young."
"What made you think of it?"
"Nothing; it just came. I seem to have known about the flower fairies all my life. I miss them so in the winter, when they all go away under the ground to their winter palace, and I am always so happy when I see the first snowdrop come. I always go and kiss her, and tell her how glad I am to see her, and how brave I think she is to be the first to come; and I promise her that if a hard frost comes I will put some nice leaves round her to keep her warm."
"Why, this is a fairy tale. What does your uncle say?"
"I have never told him; it wouldn't be any good. He would only tell me to sew my seam, or knit my stocking, or do something useful."
"But couldn't you make him understand?"