put together.

“And did you really do it all by yourself, Bruno?” said Sylvie.

“And all for me?”

“I was helped a bit,” Bruno began, with a merry little laugh at her

surprise. “We’ve been at it all the afternoon–I thought oo’d like–”

and here the poor little fellow’s lip began to quiver, and all in a

moment he burst out crying, and running up to Sylvie he flung his arms

passionately round her neck, and hid his face on her shoulder.

There was a little quiver in Sylvie’s voice too, as she whispered “Why,

what’s the matter, darling?” and tried to lift up his head and kiss him.

But Bruno only clung to her, sobbing, and wouldn’t be comforted till he

had confessed. “I tried–to spoil oor garden–first–but I’ll never–

never–” and then came another burst of tears, which drowned the rest

of the sentence. At last he got out the words “I liked–putting in the

flowers–for oo, Sylvie –and I never was so happy before.”

And the rosy little face came up at last to be kissed, all wet with tears

as it was.

Sylvie was crying too by this time, and she said nothing but “Bruno,

dear!” and “I never was so happy before,” though why these two children

who had never been so happy before should both be crying was a mystery

to me.

I felt very happy too, but of course I didn’t cry: “big things” never

do, you know we leave all that to the Fairies. Only I think it must

have been raining a little just then, for I found a drop or two on my


After that they went through the whole garden again, flower by flower,

as if it were a long sentence they were spelling out, with kisses for

commas, and a great hug by way of a full-stop when they got to the end.

“Doos oo know, that was my river-edge, Sylvie?” Bruno solemnly began.

Sylvie laughed merrily. “What do you mean?” she said. And she pushed

back her heavy brown hair with both hands, and looked at him with

dancing eyes in which the big teardrops were still glittering.

Bruno drew in a long breath, and made up his mouth for a great effort.

“I mean revenge,” he said: “now oo under’tand.” And he looked so happy

and proud at having said the word right at last, that I quite envied him.

I rather think Sylvie didn’t “under’tand” at all; but she gave him a

little kiss on each cheek, which seemed to do just as well.

So they wandered off lovingly together, in among the buttercups, each

with an arm twined round the other, whispering and laughing as they went,

and never so much as once looked back at poor me. Yes, once, just before

I quite lost sight of them, Bruno half turned his head, and nodded me a

saucy little good-bye over one shoulder. And that was all the thanks I

got for my trouble. The very last thing I saw of them was this–

Sylvie was stooping down with her arms round Bruno’s neck, and

saying coaxingly in his ear, “Do you know, Bruno, I’ve quite forgotten

that hard word. Do say it once more. Come! Only this once, dear!”

But Bruno wouldn’t try it again.



The Marvellous–the Mysterious–had quite passed out of my life for the

moment: and the Common-place reigned supreme. I turned in the

direction of the Earl’s house, as it was now ‘the witching hour’ of five,

and I knew I should find them ready for a cup of tea and a quiet chat.

Lady Muriel and her father gave me a delightfully warm welcome. They were

not of the folk we meet in fashionable drawing-rooms who conceal all

such feelings as they may chance to possess beneath the impenetrable mask

of a conventional placidity. ‘The Man with the Iron Mask’ was, no doubt,

a rarity and a marvel in his own age: in modern London no one would turn

his head to give him a second look! No, these were real people.

When they looked pleased, it meant that they were pleased: and when

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Categories: Carroll, Lewis