“Yes, ma, I know you can’t refuse,” said Grace.
Mrs. Clifford hesitated. “The stories are yellow with age, Grace; they were written in my girlhood: and they are rather torn and disarranged, if I remember. Besides, my child, my flowing hand is difficult to read.”
“Oh, mamma, I think you write beautifully! splendidly!”
“Another objection,” continued Mrs. Clifford: “they are rather too old for Prudy, I should judge.”
“But I keep a-growing, Aunt ’Ria! Don’t you s’pose I know what fairy stories mean? They don’t mean any thing! You didn’t feel afraid I’d believe ’em, did you? I wouldn’t believe ’em, I promise I wouldn’t; just as true’s I’m walking on this floor!”
“Indeed, I hope you would not, little Prudy; for I made them up as I went along. There are no fairies but those we have in our hearts. Our best thoughts are good fairies; and our worst thoughts are evil fairies.”
“Oh, yes, auntie, I know! When we go bathing in the ocean, Susy says, ‘Let’s be all clean, so the spirit of the water can enter our hearts.’ And it does; but it goes in by our noses.”
Mrs. Clifford had tacitly given her consent to Grace’s copying the stories. This task was performed accordingly, much to the disgust of Horace, who declared that of the whole number only the tale of “Wild Robin” was worth reading.
“And ‘Wild Robin,’” said Grace, instructively, “is the only one that has a moral for you, Horace. When our soldiers are starving so, it is really dreadful to see how you dislike corned beef and despise vegetables! Such a dainty boy as you needs to be stolen a while by the fairies.”
“Well, Gracie, I reckon you’d run double-quick to pull me off the milk-white steed. You couldn’t get along without me two days. Look here! what story has a moral for you, miss? It’s the ‘Water-kelpie.’ You are like the man that married Moneta: you’re always wanting money.”