"Mamma, mamma," Peggy interrupted, putting her fingers in her ears as she spoke, "I won't listen. You mustn't, mustn't say that. I must have my fairies, mamma. I've no sisters."
"Well, keep them in fairyland then, or at least only let them out for visits now and then. But don't mix them up with real things too much, or you will get quite a confusion, and never be sure if you're awake or dreaming."
Peggy seemed to consider this over very seriously. After a minute or too she lifted her face again, and looked straight into her mother's with her earnest gray eyes.
"Mamma dear," she began, "will you tell me what the little white house is reely like, then? If you will, I'll promise not to think there's fairies there—only——"
"Only what, dear?"
"If you don't mind," said Peggy, very anxious not to hurt her mother's feelings, "I'd rather not have pigs. I don't think I like pigs very much."
"Well, we needn't have pigs then. But remember I can only 'fancy' it. I've never seen that particular cottage, you see, Peggy. But I have seen other cottages in Brackenshire, and so I can fancy what it most likely is. You see there are different kinds of fancying—there's fancying that is all fancy, like fairy stories, and there's fancying that might be true and real, and that very likely is true and real. Do you understand?"
"Yes," said Peggy, drawing a deep breath. "Well, mamma, go on real-fancying, please. What's that place you've been at—Brat—what is it?"
"Brackenshire," mamma replied. "That's the name of that part of the country that we see far off, from the windows upstairs."
"And is all the cottages white there, and is they very pretty?" asked Peggy, with deep interest. "Oh, mamma, do tell me, quick."