The sadness in her eyes was reflected in the child’s.
“How can that be?” asked Mavis.
The blue-eyed princess shook her head.
“Nay, my darling, I cannot tell you, and I scarce would if I could,” she said gently. But then a brighter look came over her face again, “Don’t look so sad. They change again some of them, and seek me as earnestly as they would have before fled from me. And some day you may help and guide such seekers, simple as you are, my little Mavis. Now I must go—call Ruby—she would not stay for me; she has not yet seen me. But she heard my voice, that is better than nothing. Good-bye, little Mavis, and if you want me again before I come of myself, seek me in the west turret.”
Mavis’s face lighted up.
“Then it was you—you are cousin Hortensia’s fairy, and it wasn’t a dream after all. And of course you must be a fairy, for that was ever, ever so long ago. She was a little girl then, and now she is quite old, and you look as young as—as—”
“As who or what?” asked the princess, smiling again.
“As the Sleeping Beauty in the wood,” replied Mavis, after deep consideration.
At this the princess did more than smile; she laughed,—the same clear delicate laugh which the children had heard that day in the distance.
And Mavis laughed too; she could not help it.