“That’s all right. Now jump up, my dear, and hasten home, or Betsy’s mother will be wondering what has become of you.”
Judy got up slowly. “I’m so wet,” she said, “and oh! my foot’s so sore. These horrible boots! I think it’s too—”
“Hush!” said the fairy. “How would you like me to make you stay as you are, till you quite leave off that habit of grumbling. I’m not sure but what it would be a good thing for her,” she added, consideringly, as if thinking aloud.
“O no, please don’t,” said Judy, “please, please don’t. I do beg your pardon; I didn’t mean to say it, and I won’t say it any more.”
“Then off with you; your foot won’t be so bad as you think,” said the fairy.
“Thank you,” replied Judy, fancying already that it hurt her less. She had turned to go when she stopped.
“Well,” said the old woman, “what’s the matter now?”
“Nothing,” answered Judy, “but only I was thinking, if I am myself again to-morrow morning, and Betsy’s herself, what will they all think? nurse and all, I mean; and if I try to explain, I’m sure they’ll never believe me—they’ll say I’m talking nonsense. Nurse always says ‘rubbish’ if we make up fairy stories, or anything like that.”
The old woman smiled curiously.
“Many wiser people than nurse think that ‘rubbish’ settles whatever they don’t understand,” she said. “But never you mind, Judy. You needn’t trouble your head about what any one will think. No one ever will be the wiser but you and I. When Betsy wakes in her own little bed in the morning, she will only think she has had a curious dream—a dream, perhaps, which will do her no harm—and nurse will think nothing but that Miss Judy has been cured of grumbling in a wonderful way. For if you’re not cured it will be my turn to say it’s too bad!—will it not?”