“This is the Hall of Days,” said the fairy. “Take whichever day pleases you most.”
Like great balls of glass the days were of many colors and of many kinds. Some were dark and some were light; some were dim and others clear.
One was like a crystal and the odor of roses seemed to come from it. Its colors were soft and Margaret gazed deep into it. Vague dreams seemed to come from it and memories happy and delightful. But she couldn’t live on dreams and memories. That wouldn’t do. She might like that sort of a day once in a while but her young life demanded something to do on the best day. This was a day that had gone.
One other day pleased her much. It shone like the sun on the new fallen snow. It was so white and so pure that she lifted it carefully lest she should soil and spot it.
“It is too bright. It hurts my eyes,” said she, putting it back.
“Yes, little girl,” said the fairy. “That is to-morrow. It must be shaded by many things before one can bear it.”
Then, just between the two, Margaret spied the most beautiful ball of all. It wavered and shimmered; now it was red, now green, now yellow and now pink. Oh, there were so many colors that she could not name them all. Wave upon wave of color swept through it and all seemed shot with the golden lights.
“That is the one that I want,” she cried happily. “That is the most beautiful day of all.”
“Take it, then,” said the fairy. “It is yours.”
All the way home, the maiden clasped it tightly.