“The orchard doesn’t seem the same place
by moonlight at all,” said the Story Girl dreamily.
“It’s lovely, but it’s different.
When I was very small I used to believe the fairies
danced in it on moonlight nights. I would like
to believe it now but I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, it’s so hard to believe things you
know are not true. It was Uncle Edward who told
me there were no such things as fairies. I was
just seven. He is a minister, so of course I
knew he spoke the truth. It was his duty to tell
me, and I do not blame him, but I have never felt
quite the same to Uncle Edward since.”
Ah, do we ever “feel quite the same” towards
people who destroy our illusions? Shall I ever
be able to forgive the brutal creature who first told
me there was no such person as Santa Claus?
He was a boy, three years older than myself; and he
may now, for aught I know, be a most useful and respectable
member of society, beloved by his kind. But
I know what he must ever seem to me!
We waited at Uncle Alec’s door for the others
to come up. Peter was by way of skulking shamefacedly
past into the shadows; but the Story Girl’s
brief, bitter anger had vanished.
“Wait for me, Peter,” she called.
She went over to him and held out her hand.
“I forgive you,” she said graciously.
Felix and I felt that it would really be worth while
to offend her, just to be forgiven in such an adorable
voice. Peter eagerly grasped her hand.
“I tell you what, Story Girl, I’m awfully
sorry I laughed in church, but you needn’t be
afraid I ever will again. No, sir! And
I’m going to church and Sunday School regular,
and I’ll say my prayers every night. I
want to be like the rest of you. And look here!
I’ve thought of the way my Aunt Jane used to
give medicine to a cat. You mix the powder in
lard, and spread it on his paws and his sides and
he’ll lick it off, ’cause a cat can’t
stand being messy. If Paddy isn’t any better
to-morrow, we’ll do that.”
They went away together hand in hand, children-wise,
up the lane of spruces crossed with bars of moonlight.
And there was peace over all that fresh and flowery
land, and peace in our little hearts.
Paddy was smeared with medicated lard the next day,
all of us assisting at the rite, although the Story
Girl was high priestess. Then, out of regard
for mats and cushions, he was kept in durance vile
in the granary until he had licked his fur clean.
This treatment being repeated every day for a week,
Pat recovered his usual health and spirits, and our
minds were set at rest to enjoy the next excitement—collecting
for a school library fund.
Our teacher thought it would be an excellent thing
to have a library in connection with the school; and
he suggested that each of the pupils should try to
see how much money he or she could raise for the project
during the month of June. We might earn it by
honest toil, or gather it in by contributions levied
on our friends.
