And as for the child—'way, down deep in her little heart, she had builded of the infinity of her love, three sky-reaching heaps, each one bigger, and more wonderful than the other. One of these she gave to her mother; one to her daddy; and one to "Mr. Tom." And she deemed herself not undutiful, nor lacking in filial amity, for so doing.
Kathryn had followed her sister into the house. Left alone with Blake, Muriel ran swiftly to him, bounding to his knee, and clasping around his neck strong little arms.
"Mr. Tom," she cried, "you haven't told me a story for most a year!"
He held her to him.
"Haven't I, little partner?" he inquired, with infinite tenderness. "Well, that's a grave omission, isn't it? I'll tell you one now." As she sank down contentedly in his lap, and settled her outspreading little skirt primly about her: "What shall it be about?"
"A fairy story," she suggested. "A fairy story about a little girl."
He sat for a moment, in thought; at length he began:
"Well, once upon a time, there was a little girl—a fairy princess."
"Was she pretty?"
"Beautiful. Beautiful as she was good, good as she was beautiful. She was a wonderful, wonderful princess. There was a fairy prince, too," he went on, "a handsome, dashing—a prince that everyone loved and admired and honored."