I hurried to the house to find the little girl upon the bed, struggling bravely with her shoes and stockings.
"Did the fairies come?" she demanded, springing into my arms for her Christmas kiss.
For my answer I carried her to the window, through which she beheld the white rose tree.
"See," I said, "how good are the good little fairies to good little girls."
"May I go as soon as I am dressed and pick the tree?" the child besought, her eyes beaming with expectation.
"Yes," I said, "you may go, but I think the fairies would rather you would wait until our kind Doña Maria and Mariposilla return from church. The Doña Maria must be very weary; she has not slept all night for watching at the bedside of the grandmother. I think I know a little girl who might help to get breakfast, so that when the Doña Maria returns she can refresh herself at once with some hot coffee. I wonder if the little girl's name is Marjorie? Or perhaps I am mistaken; I may have forgotten her name."
Marjorie took one long, regretful look at the rose-tree; then from her baby heart there escaped a tragic little sigh that was half a sob. "Please, dear mamma," she said, bravely, "I will mind the fairies."
Fortunately for both mother and child, their resolution was not long tested.
It took but a few moments to prepare the toast and coffee, for Antonio had unexpectedly lighted the fire and filled the water kettle. Before our simple meal was quite ready the Doña Maria and Mariposilla had arrived.
It was amusing to witness the Doña Maria's mortification when she perceived that I had cooked the breakfast; her distress was genuine when she declared that the Señora would certainly be ill. "I am ashamed that I should have remained so long," she apologized. "The Señora should not have arisen until our return. It is ill fortune that she has not permitted me to prepare her a dainty holiday breakfast."