'How?' asked Maia. 'Does she know the forester and his wife? Does she go and ask them to give you a holiday?'
'Not exactly,' said Silva, smiling. 'I can't tell you how she does it. She has her own ways for doing everything. How does she get you your holidays?'
'Does she get us them?' said Maia, astonished. 'Why, Lady Venelda never speaks of her. Do you think she knows her?'
'I can't tell you,' said Silva, again smiling in the same rather strange way as before, and somehow when she smiled like that she reminded Maia of godmother herself; 'but she does know somebody at the white castle, and somebody there knows her.'
'The old doctor!' exclaimed Maia, clapping her hands. 'I'm sure you mean the old doctor. Ah! that's how it is, is it? Godmother sends to the old doctor or writes to him, or—or—I don't know what—and then he finds out we need a holiday, and—oh, he manages it somehow, I suppose!'
'Yes,' said Silva; 'but as long as you get your holiday it's all right. When godmother tells us of anything we're to do, or that she has settled for us, we're quite pleased without asking her all the little bits about it.'
'I see,' said Maia; 'but then, Silva, you're different from me.'
'Of course I am,' said Silva; 'but it wouldn't be at all nice if everybody was the same. That's one of the things godmother always says.'
'Yes, like what she says about how stupid it would be if we knew everything, and if there was nothing more to puzzle and wonder about. It is nice to wonder and puzzle sometimes, but not always. Just now I don't mind about anything except about the fun of going so fast, with those dear little ponies' bells tinkling all the way. I shall be so sorry to get to the cottage, for we shan't have time to go in, Silva. We shall have to hurry home not to be too late for supper.'
Just as she spoke Waldo pulled up sharply.