flower where it grows sort of rosy; and in among the small, curly
leaves, like fringed curtains, you can see the little green fairy
sitting all alone. Your mother showed me that, and I think it is very
pretty. I call it a ‘fairy,’ but it is really where the seeds are hidden
and the sweet smell comes from.”
Jill spoke softly lest she should disturb the others, and, as she
turned to push up her pillow, she saw Mrs. Minot looking at her
with a smile she did not understand.
“Did you speak, ‘m?” she asked, smiling back again, without in the
least knowing why.
“No, dear. I was listening and thinking what a pretty little story one
could make out of your fairy living alone down there, and only
known by her perfume.”
“Tell it, Mamma. It is time for our story, and that would be a nice
one, I guess,” said Jack, who was as fond of stories as when he sat
in his mother’s lap and chuckled over the hero of the beanstalk.
‘We don’t have fairy tales on Sunday, you know,” began Jill
regretfully.
“Call it a parable, and have a moral to it, then it will be all right,”
put in Frank, as he shut his big book, having found what he
wanted.
“I like stories about saints, and the good and wonderful things they
did,” said Jill, who enjoyed the wise and interesting bits Mrs.
Minot often found for her in grown-up books, for Jill had
thoughtful times, and asked questions which showed that she was
growing fast in mind if not in body.
“This is a true story; but I will disguise it a little, and call it ‘The
Miracle of Saint Lucy,” began Mrs. Minot, seeing a way to tell her
good news and amuse the children likewise.
Frank retired to the easy-chair, that he might sleep if the tale
should prove too childish for him. Jill settled herself among her
cushions, and Jack lay flat upon the rug, with his feet up, so that he
could admire his red slippers and rest his knee, which ached.
“Once upon a time there was a queen who had two princes.”
“Wasn’t there a princess?” asked Jack, interested at once.
“No; and it was a great sorrow to the queen that she had no little
daughter, for the sons were growing up, and she was often very
lonely.
“Like Snowdrop’s mother,” whispered Jill.
“Now, don’t keep interrupting, children, or we never shall get on,”
said Frank, more anxious to hear about the boys that were than the
girl that was not.
“One day, when the princes were out–ahem! we’ll say
hunting–they found a little damsel lying on the snow, half dead
with cold, they thought. She was the child of a poor woman who
lived in the forest–a wild little thing, always dancing and singing
about; as hard to catch as a squirrel, and so fearless she would
climb the highest trees, leap broad brooks, or jump off the steep
rocks to show her courage. The boys carried her home to the
palace, and the queen was glad to have her. She had fallen and hurt
herself, so she lay in bed week after week, with her mother to take
care of her–”
“That’s you,” whispered Jack, throwing the white carnation at Jill,
and she threw back the red one, with her finger on her lips, for the
tale was very interesting now.
“She did not suffer much after a time, but she scolded and cried,
and could not be resigned, because she was a prisoner. The queen
tried to help her, but she could not do much; the princes were kind,
but they had their books and plays, and were away a good deal.
Some friends she had came often to see her, but still she beat her
wings against the bars, like a wild bird in a cage, and soon her
spirits were all gone, and it was sad to see her.”
“Where was your Saint Lucy? I thought it was about her, asked
Jack, who did not like to have Jill’s past troubles dwelt upon,
since his were not.
“She is coming. Saints are not born–they are made after many