Fairies Afield

by Mrs. Molesworth

She knew by heart every inch of the place and everything it contained. She made up stories to herself about the old pieces of furniture—quaint chairs short of a leg or two, a tumble-down chest of drawers, with a marble top, which must, in the far past, have stood in a handsome, perhaps in a beautiful, room; a cracked and blackened mirror or two; a pathetic old cradle on rockers, which seemed asking for a baby to nurse. Merran talked to and pitied them all; sometimes even she sang in her very thin tiny voice to the cradle, "just to make it think it's not empty," she would say to herself as a sort of excuse.

Among the things on the shelf, nothing interested her much except the "rain-house." She had never been able to examine it, for it was too high up for her to reach, and there was nothing in the shape of a ladder in the garret. Now and then she had thought of climbing up by the help of some of the chairs, but they were all too rickety to be of any use. So she contented herself with fancies about the queer little cottage with its two doors, out of one of which the woman could be seen peeping—the man never appeared, and Merran used to picture to herself that perhaps there was a pretty fairy garden behind the house, in which he was always busy working, while his wife kept everything neat and clean inside and cooked the dinner, pretending that the little woman only looked out now and then just to wish her—Merran—good-morning.

But to-day she was too unhappy to have cheerful fancies about anything at all, and she even felt vexed with the doll, imagining that its face was laughing at her as she sat there crying, and as she gazed up at it the fancy increased till she began to feel quite angry.

"You'd cry too, if you were me," she said at last. "You are up there quite safe and snug—nobody to scold you, or order you about. You're not forced to wear ugly dirty old clothes 'cos you got caught in the rain—no, of course, you never come out in the rain. I wish I lived in a country where it was always dry and clean, instead of muddy and wet."

There was some excuse for this wish. For though it was not a hilly part of the world—and one generally imagines that it is in mountainous districts that the weather is the most uncertain—the country where the farm-house, now Merran's home, stood, was extraordinarily trying in this respect. It was very fertile, as it was well watered, but changeable past description, quite enough to try the farmers' tempers, not to speak of little girls'. Never, for two days together, could even the oldest inhabitants, naturally supposed to be the most weather-wise, prophesy with any security what was coming. Barometer after barometer proved all but useless. I believe it was in a fit of irritation that Farmer Mac had knocked over the old "rain-house," and broken it, because he imagined "the pair who tell the weather" had misled him. They had not done so, as you will hear, and it would have been better for him if he had not treated them as he did. But of this Merran knew nothing.

"Yes," she repeated angrily, for it seemed to her that the figure had moved forward a little and was really looking down at her as if it were alive, "yes," she said, "you wouldn't like it, I can tell you, so you needn't stare at me so. If only I could get up to you, I'd tell you things that would make even you, a silly wooden doll, sorry for me."

To her amazement, a voice replied to her.

"Close your eyes," it said, and even if Merran had felt inclined to disobey, I doubt if she could have done so. "Hold out your hands—upwards," it went on, and then the child became aware that whoever it was that spoke was somewhere above her, and again she obeyed, stretching up her hands as far as she could reach. Then for a third time came a command. "Spring," said the voice, "spring, high, into the air. Yes, that is right," and as she gave the leap upwards, instead of at once dropping down again as one naturally would, she felt her fingers grasped, gently but firmly, and in another moment her feet touched ground again, and the same voice now said gently, "Good girl. Now, Merran, you may look about you."

You may be sure she lost no time in availing herself of the permission. But—just at first, she did not feel sure that her eyes were not somehow or other playing her a trick. What she saw, the place where she found herself, seemed so strange; still more so the person who, still holding her by the hands, was looking down at her, smiling.

"Who are you?" said Merran, drawing away a little, for she felt half frightened.