"A sprite!" said Fleda.
"I have read a story of a lady, Elfie, who had a great many little unearthly creatures, a kind of sprites, to attend upon her. Some sat in the ringlets of her hair and took charge of them; some hid in the folds of her dress and made them lie gracefully; another lodged in a dimple in her cheek, and another perched on her eyebrows, and so on."
"To take care of her eyebrows?" said Fleda laughing.
"Yes--to smooth out all the ill-humoured wrinkles and frowns, I suppose."
"But am I such a sprite?" said Fleda.
"Something like it."
"Why what do I do?" said Fleda, rousing herself in a mixture of gratification and amusement that was pleasant to behold.
"What office would you choose, Elfie? what good would you like to do me?"
It was a curious wistful look with which Fleda answered his question, an innocent look, in which Mr. Carleton read perfectly that she felt something was wanting in him, and did not know exactly what. His smile almost made her think she had been mistaken.
"You are just the sprite you would wish to be, Elfie," he said.