“Smith, I didn’t expect it of you.
Bravo, my boy!”
And I, John Smith, felt myself a hero.
The light princess.
Five o’clock, anxiously expected by me, came,
and with it the announcement of dinner. I think
those of us who were in the secret would have hurried
over it, but with Beeves hanging upon our wheels,
we could not. However, at length we were all in
the drawing-room, the ladies of the house evidently
surprised that we had come up stairs so soon.
Besides the curate, with his wife and brother, our
party comprised our old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield,
whose previous engagement had been advanced by a few
days.
When we were all seated, I began, as if it were quite
a private suggestion of my own:
“Adela, if you and our friends have no objection,
I will read you a story I have just scribbled off.”
“I shall be delighted, uncle.”
This was a stronger expression of content than I had
yet heard her use, and I felt flattered accordingly.
“This is Christmas-time, you know, and that
is just the time for story-telling,” I added.
“I trust it is a story suitable to the season,”
said Mrs. Cathcart, smiling.
“Yes, very,” I said; “for it is
a child’s story—a fairy tale, namely;
though I confess I think it fitter for grown than for
young children. I hope it is funny, though.
I think it is.”
“So you approve of fairy-tales for children,
Mr. Smith?”
“Not for children alone, madam; for everybody
that can relish them.”
“But not at a sacred time like this?”
And again she smiled an insinuating smile.
“If I thought God did not approve of fairy-tales,
I would never read, not to say write one, Sunday or
Saturday. Would you, madam?”
“I never do.”
“I feared not. But I must begin, notwithstanding.”
The story, as I now give it, is not exactly as I read
it then, because, of course, I was more anxious that
it should be correct when I prepared it for the press,
than when I merely read it before a few friends.
“Once upon a time,” I began; but I was
unexpectedly interrupted by the clergyman, who said,
addressing our host:
“Will you allow me, Colonel Cathcart, to be
Master of the Ceremonies for the evening?”
“Certainly, Mr. Armstrong.”
“Then I will alter the arrangement of the party.
Here, Henry—don’t get up, Miss Cathcart—we’ll
just lift Miss Cathcart’s couch to this corner
by the fire.—Lie still, please. Now,
Mr. Smith, you sit here in the middle. Now, Mrs.
Cathcart, here is an easy chair for you. With
my commanding officer I will not interfere. But
having such a jolly fire it was a pity not to get
the good of it. Mr. Bloomfield, here is room
for you and Mrs. Bloomfield.”
“Excellently arranged,” said our host.
“I will sit by you, Mr. Armstrong. Percy,
won’t you come and join the circle?”
