Billy was suddenly overcome with bashfulness when the child, quite composed, came forward to meet him. A bath, a shampoo, and new clothes had transformed her from a tangled, smudged little girl to a lovely miss with a high-bred air foreign to the childish manners Billy understood. He recognized Edith’s gown in the pretty frock mother and daughter had sat late to make over; but the neat ties and hose, all the little things it takes to make a girl look pretty, where had they come from?
“Aren’t you going to say ‘Good-morning’ to me, Billy?” She put out the slenderest little white hand, and looked into his face appealingly.
“Of course I am,” he replied promptly, with a squeeze of her hand that made her wince. “At first I was scared; I thought you must be a fairy.”
“Oh, no, not a fairy; only Cinderella. Last night I was the poor little cinder girl; now my fairy godmothers, two, have touched me with their wands, needles, and I’m so fine even the Prince didn’t know me.”
“Well, the Prince will see that the glass slipper’s tied fast. He’s got no ‘Ho, minions!’ to hunt for you if you turn Cinderella again.” He stooped and fastened her tie.
She clapped her hands. “Oh, I’m glad you like fairies, too. Do you know about Bagdad and Semiramide and Good King Arthur and Ivanhoe, and all the other beautiful things in the world?” she asked, breathlessly.
“Dear me, mother,” Edith said when Mrs. Bennett came in with hot cakes, “what shall we do with two children in dreamland?” Edith had not touched her breakfast, but was waiting on the others.
“Three you should say. Don’t you live in the dreamland of music? Eat your own breakfast, or you’ll be late for the train.”
“Train? Is she going away?” The small girl’s face grew sorrowful.
“Only for a day, dear. I’ll be back to-night.”