For a full month the business, for which I had returned to London,detained me there: and even then it was only the urgent advice of myphysician that induced me to leave it unfinished and pay another visitto Elveston.

Arthur had written once or twice during the month; but in none of hisletters was there any mention of Lady Muriel. Still, I did not augurill from his silence: to me it looked like the natural action of a lover,who, even while his heart was singing "She is mine!", would fear topaint his happiness in the cold phrases of a written letter, but wouldwait to tell it by word of mouth. "Yes," I thought, "I am to hear hissong of triumph from his own lips!"

The night I arrived we had much to say on other matters: and, tiredwith the journey, I went to bed early, leaving the happy secret stilluntold. Next day, however, as we chatted on over the remains ofluncheon, I ventured to put the momentous question. "Well, old friend,you have told me nothing of Lady Muriel--nor when the happy day is to be?"

"The happy day," Arthur said, looking unexpectedly grave, "is yet inthe dim future. We need to know--or, rather, she needs to know me better.I know her sweet nature, thoroughly, by this time. But I dare not speaktill I am sure that my love is returned."

"Don't wait too long!" I said gaily. "Faint heart never won fair lady!"

"It is 'faint heart,' perhaps. But really I dare not speak just yet."

"But meanwhile," I pleaded, "you are running a risk that perhaps youhave not thought of. Some other man--"

"No," said Arthur firmly. "She is heart-whole: I am sure of that.Yet, if she loves another better than me, so be it! I will not spoilher happiness. The secret shall die with me. But she is my first--and my only love!"

"That is all very beautiful sentiment," I said, "but it is not practical.It is not like you.

He either fears his fate too much,Or his desert is small,Who dares not put it to the touch,To win or lose it all."

"I dare not ask the question whether there is another!" he saidpassionately. "It would break my heart to know it!"

"Yet is it wise to leave it unasked? You must not waste your life uponan 'if'!"

"I tell you I dare not!', "May I find it out for you?" I asked, withthe freedom of an old friend.

"No, no!" he replied with a pained look. "I entreat you to say nothing.Let it wait."

"As you please," I said: and judged it best to say no more just then."But this evening," I thought, "I will call on the Earl. I may beable to see how the land lies, without so much as saying a word!"

It was a very hot afternoon--too hot to go for a walk or do anything--or else it wouldn't have happened, I believe.

In the first place, I want to know--dear Child who reads this!--whyFairies should always be teaching us to do our duty, and lecturing uswhen we go wrong, and we should never teach them anything? You can'tmean to say that Fairies are never greedy, or selfish, or cross, ordeceitful, because that would be nonsense, you know. Well then, don'tyou think they might be all the better for a little lecturing andpunishing now and then?

I really don't see why it shouldn't be tried, and I'm almost sure that,if you could only catch a Fairy, and put it in the corner, and give itnothing but bread and water for a day or two, you'd find it quite animproved character--it would take down its conceit a little, at allevents.

The next question is, what is the best time for seeing Fairies?I believe I can tell you all about that.

The first rule is, that it must be a very hot day--that we may consideras settled: and you must be just a little sleepy--but not too sleepy tokeep your eyes open, mind. Well, and you ought to feel a little--whatone may call "fairyish "--the Scotch call it "eerie," and perhapsthat's a prettier word; if you don't know what it means, I'm afraid Ican hardly explain it; you must wait till you meet a Fairy, and thenyou'll know.

And the last rule is, that the crickets should not be chirping.I can't stop to explain that: you must take it on trust for the present.

So, if all these things happen together, you have a good chance ofseeing a Fairy--or at least a much better chance than if they didn't.

The first thing I noticed, as I went lazily along through an open placein the wood, was a large Beetle lying struggling on its back,and I went down upon one knee to help the poor thing to its feet again.In some things, you know, you ca'n't be quite sure what an insect wouldlike: for instance, I never could quite settle, supposing I were amoth, whether I would rather be kept out of the candle, or be allowedto fly straight in and get burnt--or again, supposing I were a spider,I'm not sure if I should be quite pleased to have my web torn down,and the fly let loose--but I feel quite certain that, if I were a beetleand had rolled over on my back, I should always be glad to be helped upagain.

So, as I was saying, I had gone down upon one knee, and was justreaching out a little stick to turn the Beetle over, when I saw a sightthat made me draw back hastily and hold my breath, for fear of makingany noise and frightening the little creature a way.

Not that she looked as if she would be easily frightened: she seemed sogood and gentle that I'm sure she would never expect that any one couldwish to hurt her. She was only a few inches high, and was dressed ingreen, so that you really would hardly have noticed her among the longgrass; and she was so delicate and graceful that she quite seemed tobelong to the place, almost as if she were one of the flowers. I maytell you, besides, that she had no wings (I don't believe in Fairieswith wings), and that she had quantities of long brown hair and largeearnest brown eyes, and then I shall have done all I can to give you anidea of her.

[Image...Fairy-sylvie]

Sylvie (I found out her name afterwards) had knelt down, just as I wasdoing, to help the Beetle; but it needed more than a little stick forher to get it on its legs again; it was as much as she could do,with both arms, to roll the heavy thing over; and all the while shewas talking to it, half scolding and half comforting, as a nurse mightdo with a child that had fallen down.

"There, there! You needn't cry so much about it. You're not killedyet--though if you were, you couldn't cry, you know, and so it's ageneral rule against crying, my dear! And how did you come to tumbleover? But I can see well enough how it was--I needn't ask you that--walking over sand-pits with your chin in the air, as usual.Of course if you go among sand-pits like that, you must expect to tumble.You should look."

The Beetle murmured something that sounded like "I did look," and Sylviewent on again.

"But I know you didn't! You never do! You always walk with your chinup--you're so dreadfully conceited. Well, let's see how many legs arebroken this time. Why, none of them, I declare! And what's the goodof having six legs, my dear, if you can only kick them all about in theair when you tumble? Legs are meant to walk with, you know. Now don'tbegin putting out your wings yet; I've more to say. Go to the frogthat lives behind that buttercup--give him my compliments--Sylvie'scompliments--can you say compliments'?"

The Beetle tried and, I suppose, succeeded.

"Yes, that's right. And tell him he's to give you some of that salve Ileft with him yesterday. And you'd better get him to rub it in for you.He's got rather cold hands, but you mustn't mind that."

I think the Beetle must have shuddered at this idea, for Sylvie went onin a graver tone. "Now you needn't pretend to be so particular as allthat, as if you were too grand to be rubbed by a frog. The fact is,you ought to be very much obliged to him. Suppose you could get nobodybut a toad to do it, how would you like that?"

There was a little pause, and then Sylvie added "Now you may go.Be a good beetle, and don't keep your chin in the air." And then beganone of those performances of humming, and whizzing, and restless bangingabout, such as a beetle indulges in when it has decided on flying, buthasn't quite made up its mind which way to go. At last, in one of itsawkward zigzags, it managed to fly right into my face, and, by the timeI had recovered from the shock, the little Fairy was gone.

I looked about in all directions for the little creature, but there wasno trace of her--and my 'eerie' feeling was quite gone off, and thecrickets were chirping again merrily--so I knew she was really gone.

And now I've got time to tell you the rule about the crickets.They always leave off chirping when a Fairy goes by--because a Fairy's akind of queen over them, I suppose--at all events it's a much granderthing than a cricket--so whenever you're walking out, and the cricketssuddenly leave off chirping, you may be sure that they see a Fairy.

I walked on sadly enough, you may be sure. However, I comforted myselfwith thinking "It's been a very wonderful afternoon, so far. I'll justgo quietly on and look about me, and I shouldn't wonder if I were tocome across another Fairy somewhere."

Peering about in this way, I happened to notice a plant with roundedleaves, and with queer little holes cut in the middle of several ofthem. "Ah, the leafcutter bee!" I carelessly remarked--you know I amvery learned in Natural History (for instance, I can always tellkittens from chickens at one glance)--and I was passing on, when asudden thought made me stoop down and examine the leaves.

Then a little thrill of delight ran through me --for I noticed that theholes were all arranged so as to form letters; there were three leavesside by side, with "B," "R," and "U" marked on them, and after somesearch I found two more, which contained an "N" and an "O."

And then, all in a moment, a flash of inner light seemed to illumine apart of my life that had all but faded into oblivion--the strangevisions I had experienced during my journey to Elveston: and with athrill of delight I thought "Those visions are destined to be linkedwith my waking life!"

By this time the 'eerie' feeling had come back again, and I suddenlyobserved that no crickets were chirping; so I felt quite sure that"Bruno was somewhere very near.

And so indeed he was--so near that I had very nearly walked over himwithout seeing him; which would have been dreadful, always supposingthat Fairies can be walked over my own belief is that they aresomething of the nature of Will-o'-the-wisps: and there's no walkingover them.

Think of any pretty little boy you know, with rosy cheeks, large darkeyes, and tangled brown hair, and then fancy him made small enough togo comfortably into a coffee-cup, and you'll have a very fair idea ofhim.

"What's your name, little one?" I began, in as soft a voice as I couldmanage. And, by the way, why is it we always begin by asking littlechildren their names? Is it because we fancy a name will help to makethem a little bigger? You never thought of as king a real large manhis name, now, did you? But, however that may be, I felt it quitenecessary to know his name; so, as he didn't answer my question,I asked it again a little louder. "What's your name, my little man?"

"What's oors?" he said, without looking up.

I told him my name quite gently, for he was much too small to be angrywith.

"Duke of Anything?" he asked, just looking at me for a moment,and then going on with his work.

"Not Duke at all," I said, a little ashamed of having to confess it.

"Oo're big enough to be two Dukes," said the little creature."I suppose oo're Sir Something, then?"

"No," I said, feeling more and more ashamed. "I haven't got any title."

The Fairy seemed to think that in that case I really wasn't worth thetrouble of talking to, for he quietly went on digging, and tearing theflowers to pieces.

After a few minutes I tried again. "Please tell me what your name is."

"Bruno," the little fellow answered, very readily. "Why didn't oo say'please' before?"

"That's something like what we used to be taught in the nursery,"I thought to myself, looking back through the long years (about a hundredof them, since you ask the question), to the time when I was a littlechild. And here an idea came into my head, and I asked him "Aren't youone of the Fairies that teach children to be good?"

"Well, we have to do that sometimes," said Bruno, "and a dreadfulbother it is." As he said this, he savagely tore a heartsease in two,and trampled on the pieces.

"What are you doing there, Bruno?" I said.

"Spoiling Sylvie's garden," was all the answer Bruno would give atfirst. But, as he went on tearing up the flowers, he muttered tohimself "The nasty cross thing wouldn't let me go and play thismorning,--said I must finish my lessons first--lessons, indeed!I'll vex her finely, though!"

"Oh, Bruno, you shouldn't do that!" I cried.

"Don't you know that's revenge? And revenge is a wicked, cruel,dangerous thing!"

"River-edge?" said Bruno. "What a funny word! I suppose oo call itcruel and dangerous 'cause, if oo wented too far and tumbleded in,oo'd get drownded."

"No, not river-edge," I explained: "revenge" (saying the word veryslowly). But I couldn't help thinking that Bruno's explanation didvery well for either word.

"Oh!" said Bruno, opening his eyes very wide, but without trying torepeat the word.

"Come! Try and pronounce it, Bruno!" I said, cheerfully. "Re-venge,re-venge."

But Bruno only tossed his little head, and said he couldn't; that hismouth wasn't the right shape for words of that kind. And the more Ilaughed, the more sulky the little fellow got about it.

"Well, never mind, my little man!" I said.

"Shall I help you with that job?"

"Yes, please," Bruno said, quite pacified.

"Only I wiss I could think of somefin to vex her more than this.Oo don't know how hard it is to make her angry!"

"Now listen to me, Bruno, and I'll teach you quite a splendid kind ofrevenge!"

"Somefin that'll vex her finely?" he asked with gleaming eyes.

"Something that will vex her finely. First, we'll get up all the weedsin her garden. See, there are a good many at this end quite hiding theflowers."

"But that won't vex her!" said Bruno.

"After that," I said, without noticing the remark, "we'll water thishighest bed--up here. You see it's getting quite dry and dusty."

Bruno looked at me inquisitively, but he said nothing this time.

"Then after that," I went on, "the walks want sweeping a bit; and Ithink you might cut down that tall nettle--it's so close to the gardenthat it's quite in the way--"

"What is oo talking about?" Bruno impatiently interrupted me."All that won't vex her a bit!"

"Won't it?" I said, innocently. "Then, after that, suppose we put insome of these coloured pebbles--just to mark the divisions between thedifferent kinds of flowers, you know. That'll have a very prettyeffect."

Bruno turned round and had another good stare at me. At last therecame an odd little twinkle into his eyes, and he said, with quite a newmeaning in his voice, "That'll do nicely. Let's put 'em in rows--all the red together, and all the blue together. "

"That'll do capitally," I said; "and then--what kind of flowers doesSylvie like best?"

Bruno had to put his thumb in his mouth and consider a little before hecould answer. "Violets," he said, at last.

"There's a beautiful bed of violets down by the brook--"

"Oh, let's fetch 'em!" cried Bruno, giving a little skip into the air."Here! Catch hold of my hand, and I'll help oo along. The grass israther thick down that way."

I couldn't help laughing at his having so entirely forgotten what a bigcreature he was talking to. "No, not yet, Bruno," I said: "we mustconsider what's the right thing to do first. You see we've got quite abusiness before us."

"Yes, let's consider," said Bruno, putting his thumb into his mouth again,and sitting down upon a dead mouse.

"What do you keep that mouse for?" I said. "You should either bury it,or else throw it into the brook."

"Why, it's to measure with!" cried Bruno.

"How ever would oo do a garden without one? We make each bed threemouses and a half long, and two mouses wide."

I stopped him, as he was dragging it off by the tail to show me how itwas used, for I was half afraid the 'eerie' feeling might go off beforewe had finished the garden, and in that case I should see no more ofhim or Sylvie. "I think the best way will be for you to weed the beds,while I sort out these pebbles, ready to mark the walks with."

"That's it!" cried Bruno. "And I'll tell oo about the caterpillarswhile we work."

"Ah, let's hear about the caterpillars," I said, as I drew the pebblestogether into a heap and began dividing them into colours.

And Bruno went on in a low, rapid tone, more as if he were talking tohimself. "Yesterday I saw two little caterpillars, when I was sittingby the brook, just where oo go into the wood. They were quite green,and they had yellow eyes, and they didn't see me. And one of them hadgot a moth's wing to carry--a great brown moth's wing, oo know, all dry,with feathers. So he couldn't want it to eat, I should think--perhapshe meant to make a cloak for the winter?"

"Perhaps," I said, for Bruno had twisted up the last word into a sortof question, and was looking at me for an answer.

One word was quite enough for the little fellow, and he went onmerrily. "Well, and so he didn't want the other caterpillar to see themoth's wing, oo know--so what must he do but try to carry it with allhis left legs, and he tried to walk on the other set. Of course hetoppled over after that."

"After what?" I said, catching at the last word, for, to tell thetruth, I hadn't been attending much.

"He toppled over," Bruno repeated, very gravely, "and if oo ever saw acaterpillar topple over, oo'd know it's a welly serious thing, and notsit grinning like that--and I sha'n't tell oo no more!"

"Indeed and indeed, Bruno, I didn't mean to grin. See, I'm quite graveagain now."

But Bruno only folded his arms, and said "Don't tell me.I see a little twinkle in one of oor eyes--just like the moon."

"Why do you think I'm like the moon, Bruno?" I asked.

"Oor face is large and round like the moon," Bruno answered, looking atme thoughtfully. "It doosn't shine quite so bright--but it's morecleaner."

I couldn't help smiling at this. "You know I sometimes wash my face,Bruno. The moon never does that."

"Oh, doosn't she though!" cried Bruno; and he leant forwards and addedin a solemn whisper, "The moon's face gets dirtier and dirtier everynight, till it's black all across. And then, when it's dirty allover--so--" (he passed his hand across his own rosy cheeks as he spoke)"then she washes it."

"Then it's all clean again, isn't it?"

"Not all in a moment," said Bruno. "What a deal of teaching oo wants!She washes it little by little--only she begins at the other edge,oo know."

By this time he was sitting quietly on the dead mouse with his armsfolded, and the weeding wasn't getting on a bit: so I had to say "Workfirst, pleasure afterwards: no more talking till that bed's finished."