She sprang up and raced towards him.
“Daddy, come along. I’ve got to cook the supper for the fairies.”
Canterton had never evolved a more beautiful flower than this child of his, Lynette. She was his in every way, without a shred of her mother’s nature, for even her glowing little head was as different from Gertrude Canterton’s as fire from clay.
“Hallo, come along.”
He caught her up with his big hands, and set her on his shoulder.
“Now then, what about Princess Puck? You don’t mean to say the greedy little beggars have eaten up all that pudding we cooked them last night?”
“Every little bit.”
“It must have been good. And it means that we shall have to put on our aprons.”
On the short grass at the bottom of the clearing was a fairy ring, and to Lynette the whole wilderness was full of the little people. The dell was her playing ground, and she fled to it on those happy occasions when Miss Vance, her governess, had her hours of freedom. As for Canterton, he was just the child that she was, entering into all her fancies, applauding them, and taking a delight in her gay, elf-like enthusiasm.
“Have you seen Brer Rabbit to-night?”