“So you admit it, do you? It is unlike you to make concessions.”
“You use long words. Uncles always use long words. It is one of the most foolish things they do.”
“I’m sorry. I wish very much not to be foolish or naughty.”
“I have wished that many times,” she returned gravely. “But naughtiness and mischief are not the same thing.”
“I believe that is so,” I answered. “But if you are really the Spirit of Mischief,—and far be it from me to doubt your word,—where is your abiding-place? Spirits must have abiding-places.”
“There are many of them, and they are a long way off. One is where the four winds meet.”
“But that—that isn’t telling. Nobody knows where that is.”
“Everybody doesn’t,” said the Spirit of Mischief gently, as one who would deal forbearingly with dullness.
“Tell me something easier,” I begged.
“Well, I’ll try again,” she said. “Sometimes when I’m not where four winds meet, I’m at the end of all the rainbows. Do you know that place?”