Once upon a time there was a little girl whose name was Bertha. She had no brother or sister, but she had two very dear friends: one was a doll with a broken nose and only half an arm; the other was a white terrier with a brown patch on his back, a short stump of a tail, and a cold black nose.
The dog's name was Samuel, and whilst he was very fond of Bertha he was deeply attached to Moggy too; Moggy, you understand, was the doll. Moggy might often be seen leaning against the nursery fender, with Samuel by her side blinking solemnly at the fire. But every now and then he would turn to look at Moggy, and put out his tongue and waggle his stumpy tail from side to side on the carpet.
Though Samuel wore a handsome collar he had quite forgotten what a chain was, for he had not been tied up for years. He never slept in the old kennel outside the kitchen door, because he preferred the mat in the hall.
Now, for a long time Moggy had slept on Bertha's pillow, and though Bertha had other dolls who were much prettier than Moggy she never took them to bed with her. But one day—it was Bertha's birthday—her mother bought her the prettiest doll she could find, a doll that opened and shut her eyes.
'I really think,' said Mrs. Western when Bertha bade her good-night, 'you ought to take the new doll to bed with you, or what is the use of having a doll who can go to sleep?'
'What would Moggy do?' asked Bertha, looking doubtful about it.
'Moggy is really too old to be jealous,' answered her mother.
So Bertha said she would take the new doll to bed, then she went upstairs with Samuel who was always in the room whilst she undressed. Bertha slept in a room by herself, but there was a door that led to her mother's room and this stood open all night. Moggy lay on the round table in the middle of the room, and she looked very shabby beside the fine new doll; still Bertha felt sorry for her as she got into bed. She placed the new doll on her pillow and said good-night to the nurse.
'Good-night, Miss Bertha.'
'Don't quite shut the door, please,' said Bertha; and leaving the door a little open as usual the nurse went downstairs, followed by Samuel. And nobody heard anything more of Bertha until the next morning.
As soon as she awoke she turned to look at her new doll, but to her great astonishment she could not see her. She could not see anything of the new doll, but there lay Moggy on the pillow just as she had done for many months past. Bertha sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes, thinking she could not be quite awake yet, but there was no mistake about it; it was certainly Moggy on her pillow, and there was no sign of the new doll.
'Nurse!' cried Bertha, when it was time to be dressed, 'what have you done with my new doll?'
'Why, Miss Bertha,' answered the nurse, 'you laid her on your pillow last night.'
'But she's not there now,' said Bertha, 'and Moggy is there. I can't see my new doll anywhere!'
The nurse stared at Moggy, and Moggy stared back with her dark eyes at the nurse; then the nurse began to search for the lost doll, but she could not find her anywhere. So she dressed Bertha, who went downstairs to breakfast.
'Mother!' she exclaimed, 'where's my new doll?'
'I thought you were going to take it to bed with you last night,' said Mrs. Western.
'So I did,' answered Bertha; 'and I left poor Moggy on the table, but when I woke this morning the other doll was gone and Moggy was on my pillow.'
'Nonsense,' said Mrs. Western; 'you must be making a mistake,' and Bertha looked as if she was going to cry. 'Sit down to breakfast,' her mother continued, 'and when we have finished we will go upstairs to look for her.'
But although they searched all over the nursery and looked into every corner, and although Samuel trotted about the room with his ears cocked and his tail waggling, the new doll could not be seen.
'Nurse,' said Mrs. Western, 'what can have become of Miss Bertha's new doll? She says she took it to bed with her last night!'
'So she did,' answered the nurse, 'because I gave the doll to Miss Bertha after she was in bed, and Moggy was lying on the table.'
'Then who do you suppose can have taken her away?' exclaimed Mrs. Western. Bertha seemed so disappointed that Mrs. Western took her out that afternoon to buy another doll—not quite such a nice doll as that which had disappeared, but a pretty doll all the same. 'This time,' said Mrs. Western, 'I shall see it laid on your pillow myself,' and she stayed in the nursery whilst Bertha had her bath. Then, as Samuel frisked about the room, Bertha got into bed and Mrs. Western placed the newest doll beside her on the pillow.
'Don't quite shut the door, please!' cried Bertha, and in two minutes she fell fast asleep. But on waking the next morning, it seemed a very strange thing! she found that her newest doll had disappeared whilst Moggy lay peacefully beside her on the pillow. She dressed more quickly than usual and ran downstairs so fast that her mother came out of the dining-room to tell her not to tumble head-foremost to the hall.
'Mother!' cried Bertha, 'she's gone! The doll you bought me yesterday's gone and Moggy was lying on the pillow.'
'Nonsense, Bertha,' said Mrs. Western, 'you must be making a mistake, because I laid her on your pillow myself.'
'She wasn't there when I woke this morning,' answered Bertha.
'Well, I cannot understand it!' cried Mrs. Western.
'I can understand it very easily,' said Mr. Western; 'of course the child is making a mistake. It must have been Moggy she took to bed.'
'I am sure it was not,' answered Mrs. Western; 'besides, what has become of the two new dolls? How do you account for their disappearance?'
'Oh, you will find them in the nursery!' he insisted. 'But to make sure, I will go upstairs with Bertha after breakfast and help her look.' So they all went upstairs together this time: Mr. Western, Mrs. Western, Bertha, and Samuel. And they examined every corner; they opened every cupboard, Samuel sniffed about the fireplace and waggled his tail, but still they saw nothing of either doll. 'Well,' said Mr. Western, 'I really can't lose any more time. You have put the dolls away somewhere and forgotten where.'
'I am positive,' said Mrs. Western, 'that the doll lay on Bertha's pillow last night and Moggy was on this table.'
'I wish you would buy another doll this afternoon,' he replied with a laugh, 'and to-night I will see it safely on Bertha's pillow myself.'
That day Mrs. Western bought a third doll, and when Bertha was comfortably tucked up in bed, her father came to her room to the great delight of Samuel. They all stood beside the bed, and having made sure that Moggy was on the table, they saw that the new black-haired doll lay beside Bertha.
'There will be no mistake this time,' said Mr. Western, and Samuel waggled his tail as if he thought on the whole his master was quite right. 'There she lies,' said Mr. Western, 'and she isn't likely to move before breakfast-time.'
But he was quite mistaken and also very much surprised. Being dressed early that morning, Mr. Western went to Bertha's room before she was up, she was in fact still asleep.
'This is really very remarkable!' he exclaimed. For there, on the pillow, lay poor Moggy, whilst he could not see the new black-haired doll anywhere. 'I can't buy a new doll every day,' he said when they were all downstairs. 'Besides, it seems to be of no use to buy them.' He looked quite bothered about it; he could not enjoy his breakfast, which was a good thing for Samuel, who had a whole sausage off his plate. 'Well,' said Mr. Western presently, 'I suppose Bertha must have another doll; this will be the fourth in four days! But,' he added, 'I am determined she shall not get away this time. I shall tie her to the bed.'
And this was what he did. He went to Bertha's room after she was in bed, and with a strong piece of string he tied the fourth fair-haired doll to the back of the bedstead. 'There!' exclaimed Mr. Western, 'I don't think this one will disappear.'
It did not disappear. But to his astonishment, when he came to the room before Bertha was awake, he saw two dolls on her pillow: one being the new, fair-haired doll, the other Moggy, whom he had left on the table in the middle of the room.
'I can't understand it at all,' he said at breakfast-time; 'any one would think that Moggy was alive.'
'At all events, she must be jealous,' answered Mrs. Western, while Samuel sat on his haunches begging for bacon.
'Well,' said Mr. Western, 'we shall not have to buy another doll to-day—that will be a change anyhow. But I am determined to find out how it happens. To-night I shall leave the new doll untied and fasten Moggy to the table.'
'Poor Moggy!' cried Bertha, looking quite tearful about it.
When bedtime came, Mr. Western took a piece of cord from his pocket and tied it tightly round Moggy's waist—she had a rather large waist, Moggy was not at all a fashionable doll—then he passed the cord under the table and fastened it securely to the leg. Samuel agreed with Bertha; he did not like to see his dear old friend treated in this way; he seemed very much distressed about it, and Bertha almost thought she heard him growl.
'There, Miss Moggy!' cried Mr. Western; 'I don't think your rest will be disturbed to-night.' And her rest was not disturbed, for when Mr. Western visited the nursery the next morning he found Moggy lying on the table in the middle of the room just as he had left her. 'Ah!' he said to himself, 'I thought so; I thought you would be safe this time!' And he turned towards Bertha's bed.
But where was the new doll? It was certainly not on the pillow where Mr. Western had left it last night! What could have become of it? He looked about the room, but there was no sign of the doll anywhere.
All breakfast-time Mr. Western was silent. He said nothing about the doll, he took no notice of Samuel, but when he rose from his chair, he said in a low, solemn voice—
'I should like you to buy another doll to-day—it need not be an expensive doll, because this will be the fifth doll we have bought in six days. But,' he added, 'it shall certainly be the last.'
So that afternoon Mrs. Western took Bertha out to buy another doll. Now she was growing used to it, Bertha rather liked the idea of having a new doll almost every day. But this doll was not a very nice one. Its hair was not real; it was only painted on its head. Bertha never felt quite at home with the doll, and it did not feel soft and warm when she pressed it against her cheek. Still her mother wished her to take it to bed with her and to leave Moggy on the table.
'Good-night, nurse,' said Bertha; 'don't quite shut the door, please.' She felt just a little disappointed that neither her father nor her mother came up as they had done the last two nights, but she soon fell asleep and forgot all about them.
Bertha had not been asleep many minutes before her door was pushed farther open, and Mr. Western softly entered the bedroom. Crossing the floor on tip-toes, he went to the window and loosening the wide curtains, carefully hid himself behind them. There he stood in a very uncomfortable position without moving for a long time. Now and then Bertha stirred in her sleep, but neither Moggy on the table nor the newest doll with the painted head, who lay on the pillow, moved the hundredth part of an inch. Although the room was dim it was not quite dark, because some light came in from the gas outside on the landing. For a long time Mr. Western stood behind the window-curtain, and presently—it must have been about a quarter to ten—he heard a soft pattering on the floor. Peeping out cautiously from behind the curtain, he saw first the tip of Samuel's nose, then his whole head, and at last his body. And now Mr. Western knew how the dolls had disappeared. He knew that Samuel was the culprit, and he smiled as he waited, expecting to see the terrier jump on the chair which stood beside the table and seize Moggy's skirt between his teeth. But before Samuel reached the chair he suddenly stopped and began to sniff. Then putting his nose close to the floor he slowly drew near to the window. After sniffing at this for some moments he seemed quickly to change his mind, and turning round he ran out of the room.
Mr. Western at once followed him. On reaching the drawing-room door, Samuel wanted to enter, but Mr. Western said—
'Samuel, come along!' and with his short tail close to his body and his head held very near the ground Samuel followed his master downstairs. At each step the dog looked more guilty, and when Mr. Western stopped outside the kitchen door, Samuel lay flat on the ground and turned over on his back, looking out of the corners of his eyes all the time. But when Mr. Western put his right hand into the kennel which Samuel never slept in, the dog became so excited again that he sprang to his feet and began to frisk about as if he had done something very clever indeed.
Mr. Western put his hand into the old kennel, and you can guess what he drew out. He drew out the black-haired doll, and with this in his hand he looked down and shook his head at Samuel. Then Samuel turned over on to his back again just as he did when he pretended to be dead. One after the other Mr. Western drew out of the kennel five new dolls, and as he stood holding them in his arms Samuel got upon his legs again and began to howl dismally.
'Come upstairs to your mistress, sir,' said Mr. Western, and Samuel followed him upstairs. But when she saw Mr. Western enter the drawing-room with the five dolls in his arms Mrs. Western laughed, and he threw them all into an arm-chair by the fireplace.
'The fact is,' said Mrs. Western, 'Samuel is a great friend of Moggy's, and I suppose he did not like to see another doll put into her place,' and Samuel waggled his tail just as if he understood all she said and quite approved of it. 'So,' she continued, 'he must have gone to the nursery after Bertha was asleep and moved Moggy from the table and put her on the pillow. Then he must have dragged the new doll downstairs. Very naughty of you, Samuel,' said Mrs. Western, shaking her finger.
Samuel crept along the carpet to her shoes and began to lick them.
'Up!' she cried, and as quickly as possible Samuel was in her lap, being kissed and patted and made completely happy. 'What a fine story we shall have to tell Bertha to-morrow!' said Mrs. Western, 'and I really think she will have to take Moggy back to sleep with her.'
Evangeline finished her story just as the train stopped at a small country station, where a porter opened the door and they all got out. The station looked like a summer-house, and when Mary went outside into the road, she clapped her hands with delight.
There was quite a small crowd of people waiting there, but what pleased Mary the most was a little brown carriage with four cream-coloured ponies. Beside the ponies stood two boys with bright buttons on their coats, whilst three rough, brown dogs jumped up at Evangeline as if they wanted to lick her face. Evangeline drove the ponies, and Mary sat wedged in between her and Sister Agatha. The two boys with bright buttons on their coats climbed into a seat behind; Evangeline flourished the whip, the sun shone, and the dogs ran barking beside the carriage.
'Where are the streets?' asked Mary a few minutes later. 'Oh!' she exclaimed, 'look at the stars on the ground!'
'Stars!' said Sister Agatha.
'Aren't they stars?' asked Mary.
'Why, of course not——'
'Then I know what they are,' said Mary; 'they're the magic counters you give to people when you want them to do things.'
'I'm afraid those don't grow by the roadside,' answered Evangeline; 'these are primroses, Mary.'
'What are primroses?' asked Mary with wondering eyes.
'You see,' said Evangeline, 'every winter the earth grows hard and cold; but when it feels the sun shine on it again it smiles, and to show you how glad it is, it puts forth all these bright little flowers.'
'I see,' answered Mary, still looking as if she did not understand at all.
'Perhaps you would like to pick some,' said Evangeline. She stopped the ponies, and at the same moment the two boys sprang to the ground and stood very stiffly at their heads. Sister Agatha and Mary got out of the carriage and, stooping by the roadside, plucked primrose after primrose, whilst the three dogs sniffed about as if they wanted to make a meal off the sweet, yellow flowers.
Then they got into the carriage again, and Evangeline flourished her whip. The boys climbed up into the back seat, and Mary felt she should not mind being driven along that sunny road for ever, or at least until tea-time. She had never smelled the air so sweet nor seen the sky so blue.
Presently they reached some shops and small houses, and the people came out to stand at the doors and bow to Evangeline as she passed.
'Why do they do that?' asked Mary.
'If you saw a fairy-queen driving four cream-coloured ponies past your house, don't you think you would bow to show how pleased you felt?' said Sister Agatha.
'I suppose I should,' answered Mary, as they came to a gate with a cottage beside it. Out from the cottage a funny little old woman came with a face the colour of a russet apple; she curtseyed so low that her chin seemed almost to touch the ground, and she wore a red cloak. In one hand she carried a stick, and Mary wondered whether she was a witch. She opened the gate, and stood bowing as Evangeline drove through it, and when Mary looked back at her afterwards the little old woman was bowing still.
Now, the road ran through a large park, and in the distance Mary saw a great white house, a part of which shone very brightly in the sunshine.
'Is that the palace?' asked the child.
'Yes,' answered Sister Agatha, 'that is your fairy's palace.'
'Why does it shine so much?' asked Mary.
'Oh, that's to welcome the queen, you know!'
'What are those things?' exclaimed Mary the next minute; 'those funny things with trees on their heads?'
'Those are deer,' said Evangeline.
'But that's what you call me!' cried Mary, with her eyes very widely open.
'Well,' said Sister Agatha, 'you're a dear too, only a different kind of dear.'
'I can't run so fast,' answered Mary. For as she spoke the deer began to trot away, then they stopped again, and one that was bigger than the rest stood in front whilst they all watched the carriage.
Several people stood at the door of the house, which seemed to be partly built of glass. All the people were young like Evangeline, and they all appeared pleased to see her. But Mary felt a little disappointed that none of them took any notice of her, and very few spoke to Sister Agatha, who took Mary's hand, and led her into the house. They passed through a wide hall with animals' heads hanging on the walls, and there was a large table with a green top and red and white balls on it.
'Where are their bodies?' asked Mary, as she walked upstairs with Sister Agatha.
'Whose bodies?'
'Belonging to the great heads downstairs?' said Mary.
'Oh!' answered Sister Agatha, 'I daresay their bodies have been turned into men.'
'I never heard of animals' bodies being turned into men before,' said Mary. 'Did Evangeline do that?' she asked; but before Sister Agatha answered she led Mary into a pretty room with two beds in it. And Mary became so deeply interested in the room that she forgot all about the animals' heads. She looked into each corner; she wanted to know which bed she was to sleep in, and then she went to one of the three windows.
'Sister Agatha!' she exclaimed the next moment, 'Sister Agatha!'
'What is the matter now?' asked Sister Agatha, with a smile.
'Do come here!' cried Mary excitedly; 'do come here! Look!' she said, pointing out at the window; 'there are two skies. This is a wonderful place!'
'I only see one,' answered Sister Agatha, coming to her side.
'But look! there are two. There's one up above and another down there.'
'That is the sea,' said Sister Agatha. 'Haven't you seen the sea before? But, of course, you have not. Yes,' said Sister Agatha quietly, as she placed a hand on Mary's shoulder, 'the sea is very wonderful!'
'What is the sea?' asked Mary.
'A great, great piece of water——'
'The same as we drink?' asked Mary.
'It would not be at all nice to drink,' was the answer. 'It would taste salt, you know.'
'Then what's the use of it if you can't drink it?' said Mary. Then she suddenly began to jump about more excitedly than ever. 'Look! look!' she cried. 'Look at that funny thing with smoke coming out of it! How fast it goes! What is that?'
'That is a ship,' Sister Agatha explained. 'It takes people on long journeys.'
'Where does it take them?' asked Mary.
'To countries a long way off.'
'Farther than we've come to-day?' cried Mary.
'Yes,' said Sister Agatha, 'a great deal farther—to countries where there are all kinds of wonderful things to be seen.'
'Not more wonderful than there are here,' said Mary.
'No,' answered Sister Agatha; 'they only seem more wonderful because we are not used to them. Everything is wonderful, you know; only we become so accustomed to things we see every day that they don't seem wonderful any longer. Now there's nothing more wonderful than a little girl, unless it is a big girl.'
'Oh, I think there is!' said Mary. 'I think ships are much more wonderful, and the sea, and the ponies, and primroses, and Evangeline, and——'
'And tea!' exclaimed Sister Agatha. 'I am going to ring for it, and then, when you have had tea, it will be time to go to bed. Now,' she added, 'we will pull down the blind.'
Sister Agatha felt afraid that Mary would be too excited to go to sleep that night, but as soon as her head touched the pillow she shut her eyes, although she dreamed of all manner of strange things. When she awoke the next morning Sister Agatha was already dressed, and as the blinds had been drawn up, Mary slipped out of bed and limped to the window.
Although her foot was a great deal better, she still walked as if she was lame, and she soon grew tired. She limped to the window, and if the sea had looked beautiful yesterday, it looked far more beautiful with the morning sun shining on it. When Mary was dressed, Sister Agatha took her downstairs to a smaller room, with open glass doors instead of windows, and when she stepped through them she found herself in a lovely garden. Some men who were digging in it touched their caps to Mary, and she said—
'Good morning,' and felt that she was quite an important little person. Then Sister Agatha called her into the room again, and they sat down to breakfast. 'I wish I could go to the sea,' said Mary.
'So you shall,' answered Sister Agatha, 'but not this morning. I am going to show you the park this morning.'
'This afternoon, then?'
'This afternoon there will be the Maypole,' said Sister Agatha.
'What's a Maypole?' asked Mary.
'I knew you would say that,' said Sister Agatha; 'but I am afraid you must wait until you see it.'
'Where's Evangeline?' cried Mary presently. 'I wish she could have breakfast with us!'
'The idea of such a thing,' was the answer. 'Evangeline has a great deal to do and a lot of friends to entertain.'
'Does the prince live here?' asked Mary.
'He lives next door,' said Sister Agatha; 'only next door is a quarter of a mile away.'
'How funny!' exclaimed Mary.
'And some day,' said Sister Agatha, 'he will go to live a long way off, and Evangeline will go with him—that will be very soon now.'
'Will she take me?' asked Mary, looking a little anxious.
'No,' said Sister Agatha quietly; 'I don't think she will want either of us, dear.'
'Shall I stay here?' asked Mary.
'No, you certainly can't stay here.'
'Then what shall I do?' cried Mary, putting out her lower lip, and looking as if she were going to cry.
Sister Agatha passed her right hand over the little girl's brown hair, and stared rather sadly into her face: 'I am sure I don't know what will happen,' she answered. 'But come, we will put on our clothes and go into the garden.'
When once they were out of the house, there were a great many things to see. There were the chickens to begin with, dozens of them, and they all came round Mary cackling so loudly that she could hardly hear herself speak. Then she went into a field where there were a lot of sheep with tiny frisking lambs, and into another field where six brown calves stood close together by the gate, and would not move to let Sister Agatha pass through. On the way home they went into a house built of glass. It felt very hot, and there were ever so many bunches of grapes hanging from the roof. And in the afternoon there was the Maypole. Mary stood in front of the house a little way from Evangeline and the prince and the other people, but they all seemed to be laughing and talking too much to look at Mary.
She felt disappointed that Evangeline took no notice of her, and she held Sister Agatha's hand more tightly. It was true that Sister Agatha was not quite so pretty as Evangeline nor so young, and she always wore the same dress, but still she was very nice for all that. Mary had always felt she belonged to Evangeline, because it was Evangeline who took her away from William Street. Besides, Sister Agatha seemed more like an ordinary person, only nicer and kinder than any one Mary had ever known, but Evangeline was not an ordinary person at all.
The Maypole stood before the door with a crown of flowers at the top, and a lot of prettily dressed children around it. Each child held a coloured ribbon in one hand, and they all sang as they danced round the Maypole winding and unwinding the ribbons. Mary thought it was all very nice, only she would have liked to hold one of the ribbons too, though it was true she did not know much about dancing, even if her foot had been quite well.
But the most delightful thing Mary had ever seen was the sea. It had been surprising when she looked at it from the window, but when Sister Agatha took her on to the beach, and her feet sank into the soft sand, and there were so many nice wet things to pick up, Mary began to laugh and to clap her hands for joy.
She liked to see the waves curling towards her, then to watch whilst they changed from green to the purest white, and just when she thought they were going to wet her shoes, they ran away again with a noise that made Mary think they were laughing at her, as if they were only playing and quite enjoying the game.
'There's another ship!' cried Mary. 'I wonder where it's going to?' she said, looking up into Sister Agatha's face.
'A long, long way,' was the answer. 'To a place where the people are different from us. They are all black, and they don't wear clothes.'
'What do they do when it's cold?' asked Mary.
'It's never cold in those countries,' said Sister Agatha. 'It is always very hot—far hotter than it is here.'
'Oh, then that's fairy-land, too!' Mary exclaimed.
'Yes, every place is full of wonders, you know,' answered Sister Agatha.
'All except William Street,' said Mary, and Sister Agatha took her hand and they walked slowly back to the house. The next day happened to be wet, and during the afternoon Evangeline came to see Mary for the first time since she left London. But when Mary had made up her mind for a nice chat, or perhaps for a story, Sister Agatha gave her a picture-book and told her to sit down.
'We have very serious matters to discuss,' she said, 'so you must keep still and not speak a word.'
Mary opened the book, but her attention soon turned from the pictures to Evangeline, who was sitting at a round table with a pencil in her hand making figures. Presently Evangeline took a purse from her pocket, and emptied it on to the table.
'I know what those are!' exclaimed Mary, unable to keep silent any longer. 'They're the magic counters! I wish I might have one,' she said.
'What should you do with it?' asked Evangeline.
'I should give it to some one when I wanted anything done very much,' said Mary.
'You may have one if you like,' answered Evangeline, and Mary eagerly held forth her hand. That evening Sister Agatha gave her a purse to keep her treasure in, but Mary was always taking it out to look at it and to make sure it was safe.
She had never had anything in her life that she liked so much. It was not only that it was bright and pretty to look at, but it made her feel so much safer. If she wanted anything done—anything very important—she could give some one the magic counter, and he would be sure to do it. Not that there seemed anything that Mary wanted done very particularly, only to see a little more of Evangeline. As it was, she saw hardly anybody but Sister Agatha, of whom she grew fonder each day. The fact was, they were all busily preparing for a great and important event, and sometimes even Sister Agatha was too busy to give much time to Mary.
Mary would have liked to see more of Evangeline, but there was another person whom she did not wish to see at all, and that was Mrs. Coppert. She had made up her mind to keep her magic counter lest Mrs. Coppert should ever try to take her back to William Street, then she would use it to send Mrs. Coppert away again.
But although Mary had quite decided to keep the counter for the benefit of Mrs. Coppert, she was tempted to change her mind one day. It was in the afternoon; she was sitting by the window that opened on to the garden, and being quite by herself she felt rather lonely. Then she saw Evangeline pass the window.
'Please come in!' Mary cried. 'I'm all alone!' and, stepping into the garden, she caught hold of Evangeline's dress.
'I'm afraid I haven't time to come in just now,' answered Evangeline, standing outside the window.
'Do come in and tell me a story!' pleaded Mary.
'I will try to tell you a story to-morrow,' said Evangeline.
'No, to-day!' said Mary, and, as Evangeline shook her head, Mary suddenly recollected her magic counter. She felt she wanted so much to hear a story that she could not even save the magic counter for Mrs. Coppert. So she put her hand in her pocket, and took out her purse, but unfortunately she could not open it.
'I want you to open it,' said Mary, holding out the purse to Evangeline. When the purse was opened Mary took it back, and she made up her mind that she would not quite shut it another time. Then she managed to take out the flat, round, yellow thing, which she placed in Evangeline's hand.
'What is this for?' asked Evangeline, looking a good deal surprised.
'It's one of the magic counters, you know,' said Mary, 'and I want you to tell me a story—a fairy story, please.'
Now as this was the first time she had used the magic counter, Mary felt a little anxious to see how it would act, and at all events she hoped Evangeline would give it back to her again, although she did not feel at all sure about it. She was greatly relieved to see Evangeline smile and look at the watch which she wore on her wrist.
'You can put this back in your purse again,' said Evangeline, and entering the room she sat down and drew Mary to her side.
'You'll tell me the story all the same,' answered Mary, as she put the magic counter back into her purse.
'Oh yes, I must, you see!' cried Evangeline with a laugh; 'only it will have to be rather a short one. You said nothing about the length.'
'Not too short,' said Mary, 'and about fairies, please;' and then she nestled snugly against Evangeline as she began the tale.
The Princess Fantosina had a very beautiful voice, and whilst walking in the palace gardens one day in spring, she began to sing. She was about to leave off singing and to re-enter the palace when she saw a strange-looking, little, old woman.
'My dear,' said the little old woman, hobbling towards the Princess Fantosina, 'I have not heard that song for two hundred years, and I should like you to sing it again.'
'I will sing it again with pleasure,' answered the princess, and she sang the song again from beginning to end.
'Now,' said the strange-looking little old woman, 'you have gratified me very much by singing without being asked twice, and I should like to do something to please you in return. Tell me what you would like to have done.'
'I don't think there is anything, thank you,' said the Princess Fantosina.
'There must be something,' was the answer, 'because the most contented person in the world always wants something else. Now,' said the old woman, 'how about a prince?'
'Oh!' cried Fantosina, smiling very brightly, 'my prince is on his way. He lives a long distance off, but he has set forth on his journey to fetch me. And though I have never seen him, I know he is very good and very handsome, and that I shall love him very dearly.' Whilst Fantosina was speaking a dove flew by. 'Oh!' she cried, 'how delightful it must be to fly!'
'So you shall,' said the little old woman. 'How should you like to be able to turn into a dove whenever you wished.'
'I should like it very much,' answered Fantosina, 'only a dove cannot sing—it can only coo, you know.'
'Then,' said the old woman, 'you shall have the power to take the form of a bird that sings more sweetly than the nightingale. It shall have a bright blue body and scarlet wings, and the loveliest song in the world. Now,' the little old woman continued, 'you must listen carefully to what I am going to say. If you pluck a primrose and hold the petals to your lips you will at once change into this bird, and a bird you will remain until you fly to a cowslip field and take a portion of the flower in your beak, then you will become a princess again just as you are now.'
With this the old woman hobbled away, and although the Princess Fantosina called to her several times she did not even glance back. So the princess returned to the palace wondering whether she should ever find the courage to pluck a primrose. Ever since she had been a small child she had thought how delightful it must be to fly through the air; to rest on the topmost branch of a tree in the sunshine and sing and sing to her heart's content.
And yet now Fantosina had the power to do what she had always longed to do, she did not feel at all sure she should do it. The reason was, that she feared lest any accident should prevent her from reaching a cowslip field and so becoming a princess again. For although she thought it would be very nice to be a bird for a few hours now and then, she would have been sorry to remain a bird always, especially as the prince was on his way to make her his bride.
But presently Fantosina went into the gardens again, and then she walked to a meadow where the grass beside the hedges was yellow with primroses. She looked around to make sure that nobody was in sight, and stooping she plucked a primrose. She did not put it at once to her lips, but carried it in her hand until she had crossed three fields and come to a standstill by a cowslip bank.
Even now she felt a little afraid to put the primrose to her lips, but the sun shone so brightly and the cloudless sky looked so blue, and she thought how delightful it must be to soar in the air on such a glorious day, and she told herself she would just change for a few minutes to see how the charm acted.
So the Princess Fantosina held the primrose to her lips and breathed upon its petals, and then there was no one standing on the cowslip bank but only a small bird with a blue body and scarlet wings hopping about the grass.
Fantosina could hardly believe at first that the bird was herself, although she was able to think of things just the same as before. But the first thing she thought of was, that it would be very pleasant to fly from the ground to the top of the tall acacia tree which stood a few yards from the bank. Only she might fly up there and be unable to come down again, or she might become giddy and tumble before she reached a bough. Still she began to move her wings, and then she felt the most delightful sensation you can imagine. She did not seem to be doing anything at all, and yet she was rising quickly through the air. It seemed so enjoyable that, when she got to the tree, she did not like to leave off flying, and instead of settling at once, she circled round and round several times before she came to rest on the highest branch.
She was not in the least frightened or giddy now; she could see farther than she had ever seen before, and everything looked very clear and distinct. She looked in the direction from which her prince was to come, but she could not see any sign of his arrival yet. Presently Fantosina began to sing, and that seemed even pleasanter than flying. She sang so loudly and so fast and enjoyed it so much, that it was later than she had intended before she thought of descending from the acacia tree. But at last she spread her scarlet wings, and dropped slowly to the grass; then she hopped to the nearest cowslip, and no sooner touched it with her beak than she became a princess again, just as she had been before.
From that day she never spent a morning without becoming a bird; she would leave the palace when nobody saw her, pluck a primrose, and walk or run to the cowslip bank. And gradually she grew bolder, and instead of waiting until she reached the cowslips, she would hold the primrose to her mouth at once, because she could fly to the other field much more quickly than she could walk. She amused herself by flying to the palace and singing outside her mother's window, and one day, after Fantosina had become a princess again, the queen spoke about the wonderful bird.
'I have never listened to such a beautiful song,' she said. 'I hear it every morning at the same hour. Have you heard it, Fantosina?'
Fantosina felt very much amused. 'Yes,' she answered, 'I heard it this morning.'
'I heard it too!' cried Abdullah, Fantosina's younger brother. 'But though I have looked for it I have not seen the bird yet.'
'It is the most beautiful bird in the world,' said Fantosina, trying not to laugh. 'It has a blue body and bright red wings. I don't believe there is another bird like it.'
Now Abdullah, being very fond of his sister, and seeing that she admired the strange bird, made up his mind to catch it for her, but he did not say anything of his intention, because he wanted to give Fantosina a pleasant surprise. But the next morning he hid himself in the shrubbery, and waited until he heard the bird's song; and peeping out he saw a scarlet wing flash in the sunshine. That afternoon Abdullah prepared a net, and the next morning again he hid in the same place. As soon as he heard the song he peeped forth and saw a spot of blue against the green leaves of an oak tree which grew close to the house, then he waited until Fantosina thought it was time to come back to her proper shape. In order to return to the cowslip bank she left the tree and flew along just above the ground, and she had spread her wings and was enjoying herself very greatly when she saw Abdullah running after her. And she saw too that her brother carried a long stick in his hands, and at the end of the stick was a large thin green net, the same as boys use to catch butterflies.
Fantosina had never felt so frightened in her life. Suppose Abdullah caught her before she could reach the cowslip bank! He might put her in a cage, or he might kill her and have her stuffed! She thought how sad it would be to have to spend her whole life in a cage, or to be put under a glass case in the queen's drawing-room!
The worst of it was that she could not tell him who she really was. When she tried to speak she could only sing, and it made her so nervous to see Abdullah running just underneath her that she could not fly nearly so fast as usual. But she did reach the sloping bank at last, and just as she was going to seize a cowslip, Abdullah held out his net. This alarmed her so much that she flew out of his reach to the top of the acacia tree, and made up her mind to stay there until Abdullah went home to luncheon.
She did not think he would stay where he was very long, because the king was a punctual man and never liked any one to be late for meals; as it was, he would be sure to miss his daughter, but he would never see her again if once Abdullah got her into his net!
So Fantosina waited on the tree a long, long time, and at last she thought Abdullah must have gone home, so she dropped to a lower branch, and holding her little blue head on one side she looked carefully around. There was no sign of her brother. He had evidently given up his attempt to capture her for to-day, and she would take care he did not have a chance again. She saw no sign of Abdullah, who was standing close to the trunk of the acacia tree; but in order to be quite safe Fantosina flew to a still lower branch, and holding her little blue head on one side again she once more looked around. Suddenly she felt confused; everything seemed to look dark and green as if she held a piece of coloured glass before her eyes, and when she tried to fly to a lighter place she knocked against a thin green wall. She tried to tear it with her beak, she tried to scrape it with her claws, but it was of no use; she could not escape do what she would; she felt she was being drawn nearer and nearer to the grass, until at last she stood exactly on top of a cowslip. Oh, if only she could get one of its petals in her beak! the very tiniest morsel would do, but the horrid green net prevented her, and then Abdullah put his hand round her and carried her home; and Fantosina knew she should never become a princess again as long as she lived.
'Look, look!' he cried, as he entered the palace. 'Look, Fantosina, I've caught the bird! Give me a cage!'
'I wish,' said the king, 'that instead of catching birds you would return in proper time for your meals.'
'I knew Fantosina wanted it,' answered Abdullah. 'Where is there a cage?'
'I don't know what has become of your sister,' said the queen, little imagining that Fantosina was held tightly in his hand, and listening to every word she said.
'I never wait for anybody!' exclaimed the king; 'kindly sit down to luncheon.'
'I will just put the bird in a cage,' said Abdullah. 'I wish Fantosina would come. How pleased she will be; won't she, mother?'
Abdullah left the room and soon found an empty bird-cage, then he put Fantosina into it, and she sat down on its floor with all her feathers ruffled, and feeling extremely miserable as you may imagine. When luncheon ended and still there was no sign of Fantosina, the king became even more alarmed than the queen; he sent men in all directions to search for her, but night came and no Fantosina. The king and queen did not go to bed all night, and a light was kept burning in every window of the palace. They were both very tired at breakfast the next morning, and when Fantosina sat on a perch in her cage and sang her loudest in her effort to make them know who she really was, the queen said the song made her head ache, and ordered that the cage should be covered over.
How miserable Fantosina felt in the darkened cage! How she longed to be able to fly from tree to tree again even if she could not return to her proper shape! But all the longing in the world was of no use. Day after day passed, the king's hair grew gray from grief, and the queen became pale and thin, while Abdullah took no pleasure in anything but the bird. Everybody in the palace went into the deepest mourning because they thought Fantosina must be dead, and once she heard her father and mother talking about the prince who was coming to marry their daughter.
'I wish we could prevent him from coming,' said the king; 'and if I knew which direction he had taken, I would send messengers to meet him.'
'It will be a great disappointment to him,' answered the queen; 'but when he sees we are in sorrow, he will not stay long.'
One day Fantosina heard that he had arrived, and she saw him through the bars of her cage that evening at dinner. He was very tall and handsome, just the kind of prince she had hoped he might be, but all she could do was to sing her best in his honour.
'What a charming song!' exclaimed the prince, 'and what beautiful plumage! I have never seen a bird like that before.'
'Abdullah caught it the day poor Fantosina disappeared,' said the queen, and she became so deeply distressed that she apologised to the prince and left the table.
'It was a pity to catch the bird,' answered the prince; 'its plumage will fade in the cage and its song will die away.'
'I caught it to please my sister,' said Abdullah, 'for I knew she would be delighted with it.' Fantosina's wings felt redder than ever, for she blushed to remember that it was quite true she had often kept birds in cages, though she was sure she should never do so again even if she had the opportunity.
'As I have found you all in such distress,' said the prince presently, 'I shall of course not stay so long as I intended. I think I shall ask you to let me depart to-morrow.'
The king offered no objection to this, for to tell you the truth, he felt pleased to get rid of the prince now he had lost Fantosina; it was not a time for visitors. After breakfast the next morning, the prince ordered a large parcel to be carried in, and when it had been unfastened he took out the costly presents he had brought from his father's kingdom. These consisted of embroideries and jewels and swords and various other things which the king and queen and Abdullah admired exceedingly. Then the king said—
'I do not know what to offer you in return for all these treasures, because I had intended to give you the most valuable of all my possessions, and that was my poor Fantosina. Now, alas! I have no daughter, and I do not know what to offer you.'
'There is one thing I should like, if you will graciously present it to me,' said the prince.
'I beg you will do me the honour to choose whatever in my kingdom pleases you the best,' answered the king.
'Then,' said the prince, 'I choose this beautiful bird.'
As the prince spoke Fantosina began to sing, for although she had made up her mind she could never be other than a bird as long as she lived, she had already grown to love the prince so dearly that she felt pleased at the idea of going away with him. The prince was to set forth at four o'clock the same afternoon, and from the window where her cage hung Fantosina could see the people making ready for his departure. When the four white horses were put into his carriage, she began to fear lest she should be forgotten, and to remind the prince, she began to sing her loudest. Presently Abdullah came to the room and climbed on to a chair to take down the cage, which he carried outside the palace. The king and queen and several courtiers stood around the prince to bid him farewell, and when Abdullah joined the group with the cage in his hand, the king felt ashamed of the smallness of his gift.
'I fear,' he said, as Abdullah handed the cage to the prince, 'you will find the bird troublesome on your journey.'
'No,' answered the prince, 'I shall not find it in the least troublesome, because I do not intend to take it on my journey.' And Fantosina felt deeply disappointed to think she was going to be left behind after all. But the next moment the prince held the cage above his head and opened the door. The instant the door was opened Fantosina flew out of the cage, but Abdullah, thinking she had escaped by an accident and that the prince would be disappointed to lose the bird, ran after her, followed by the prince, who vainly called to him to come back. The king followed his guest, from politeness, but at a slower pace, and even the queen and the courtiers walked in the same direction.
Fantosina felt almost too much excited to fly; after her confinement in the cage, her wings were a little stiff too, so that long before she reached the cowslip bank, she feared she might fall exhausted to the ground and be caught again. Then she wondered whether she find all the cowslips dead, and this idea alarmed her so much that she flew slower and slower, though she tried to fly faster and faster. Abdullah was close to her tail, the prince a little behind him, the king was in the next field, and the queen and the courtiers in the next but one.
As Fantosina drew near to the bank, she could not see one cowslip; at last she was exactly over the bank, and just as she felt she could not fly another yard, she saw a single cowslip under her claws. In an instant she dropped to the ground, and at the same moment Abdullah seized her tail. But Fantosina put forth her beak as far as it would go and just succeeded in touching the pale yellow petal of the one cowslip which was left.
To the astonishment of Abdullah and of the prince, the blue bird with the scarlet wings disappeared and in its place stood the most beautiful princess the prince had ever seen.
'Fantosina!' exclaimed Abdullah.
'Fantosina!' cried the king, almost out of breath.
'Fantosina!' cried the queen in the next field. But the prince said nothing until Fantosina held out her hand to him.
'If you had not been so good to me,' she said, 'I should have lived in a cage all my life.'
'I had no idea I was serving the Princess Fantosina,' he answered with a smile.
'No,' she said, 'but a kind action is never quite wasted,' and then the queen came up with her hand on her heart, for she had begun to run as soon as she saw her daughter, and she took Fantosina in her arms, and they all seemed very pleased to see her again, and presently they walked back to the palace. The prince's horses were sent to the stables, for of course he did not go away that day, and all the people retired to exchange their mourning garments for the very gayest they could find. A few weeks later the prince and Fantosina were married, and she went with him to his own country. But although a great many primroses grow there each spring-time, Fantosina has never changed into a bird again.
During the next few days Mary saw nothing of Evangeline, though she would have liked very much to hear another story. Sister Agatha often took her on to the beach, and Mary found that, although it is possible to make a great many things out of mud, you can make more and much nicer things out of sand.
Sometimes she thought she should like to have other children to play with, but not the same little boys and girls with whom she used to play in William Street, because she wished never to have anything to do with William Street or Mrs. Coppert again.
One day Mary was sitting with Sister Agatha as usual, when Evangeline entered the room, but she seemed too busy to take much notice of anything except the new dress which she had come to show Sister Agatha. The dress was all white and shiny, with small flowers about it, white flowers, too, and Mary admired it so much as Evangeline held it across her arms that she touched it with her finger-tips.
'Don't you think Mary might go out into the garden?' said Evangeline.
'I ought to fetch her hat then,' said Sister Agatha.
'It is beautifully warm,' answered Evangeline; 'I don't think it can hurt her to go as she is.'
So Sister Agatha told Mary she might go, and she stepped out through the open window just as she was—pinafore and all. For a few minutes she walked about the grass watching a gardener who was mowing it. She looked on whilst he swept the grass he had cut into a basket and emptied the basket into a wheel-barrow. Then he wheeled the barrow to an iron gate, and having passed through the gate, he disappeared round the corner.
Now, Mary thought it would be rather nice to go through that gate and round the corner too, and a minute later she found herself in the same road, with trees on each side of it, along which Evangeline had driven the cream-coloured ponies on the day of her arrival. Mary walked on and on, until presently she reached the cottage where she had seen the old woman in the red cloak. But no one was to be seen at present, and on going close to the gate, Mary found there was a smaller one by its side, and as this happened to be open, she passed through it into the public road.
She felt so glad to be in the road that she began to jump about and to clap her little hands. And yet she did not know why she should be glad, for the park was a far nicer place after all. Still she did feel pleased, and without thinking where she was going, or whether Sister Agatha would like her to go or not, Mary began to scamper away from the house.
The sun felt very hot, and Mary soon became breathless, so she stopped just where the road bent round towards the railway station and sat down by a high, green, flowery bank.
It really seemed very nice sitting there in the brilliant sunshine, and she leaned back until her head touched the green bank. Presently Mary closed her eyes, and though she opened them once or twice it was not long before she fell fast asleep. She did not know how much later it was when she awoke in a great fright, for she dreamed she heard Mrs. Coppert's voice, heard it quite distinctly, as if it were only a few yards from her ears. Of course it was a dream! Mary told herself that before she had time to open her eyes; but when she did open them she looked up and saw Mrs. Coppert in the road, staring down at her.
Nobody was in sight—nobody but Mrs. Coppert! Mrs. Coppert was a fat woman and tall; she had a large, shiny, red face, and great arms and hands under her cloak, and a bright blue feather in her bonnet. She was not a nice-looking person at all, and she spoke as if she were going to cry. But Mary had never seen her cry, though she had seen her make children cry very often.
'Dear me!' exclaimed Mrs. Coppert, 'if it isn't little Mary Brown! So smart, too,' she said, leaning forward and taking Mary's skirt between her fingers. 'And to think of those other poor children at home. They don't wear such fine dresses, and you haven't even asked how they are!'
'How are they?' whispered Mary, feeling very frightened.
'Haven't they got names of their own?' asked Mrs. Coppert.
'How are Sally and 'Liza and Tubby?' said Mary, knowing it was always the best to obey Mrs. Coppert.
'So happy, you'd never believe it,' was the answer. 'Troublesome, I must say; but that's overfeeding. I always did overfeed my children. And they're quite longing to see Mary Brown again, and so they shall, bless 'em!'
Mary still sat on the grass with her right hand in her pocket. Tightly between her finger and thumb she held her purse which contained the Magic Counter. Perhaps you wonder why she did not give it to Mrs. Coppert and tell her to go away at once. It is quite true that Mary believed that if she gave it to anybody, it would make her do whatever she wished, and she certainly wished Mrs. Coppert to go away. But at the same time Mary felt sure that Mrs. Coppert would keep whatever was given to her, and put it in her large pocket; while she was a woman who never did what she was asked to do. What Mary hoped was that some one else might come along the road, and then she would take out the Magic Counter at once and ask that Mrs. Coppert should be sent away.
'I'm not going to see them,' said Mary with tears in her eyes; 'I don't want to see them.'
'There now!' cried Mrs. Coppert, 'there's ingratitude! And them like brothers and sisters almost. You just get up off that grass and come along of me.'
'I want to go home,' answered Mary. 'I must go home, I must,' she said, and now she was crying as if her heart would break.
'Of course you must!' exclaimed Mrs. Coppert. 'Ain't I going to take you home? Isn't William Street your home? Haven't you lived there all your life? Haven't I been a mother to you?'
'But I—I can't go without saying good-bye to Sister Agatha and Evangeline!' cried Mary, as she stood upright. 'I must say good-bye,' she sobbed; 'they won't know where I am.'
'Oh yes they will,' was the answer. 'I'll see to that,' said Mrs. Coppert, taking one of Mary's arms; 'never you fear. Wait till we get back to William Street and I'll write a nice letter. So just you come along and no nonsense!'
Mrs. Coppert held Mary's arm so tightly that it quite hurt, but fortunately it was the left arm which she held, so that Mary could still keep her right hand in her pocket. And she managed to put one of her fingers inside the purse and to take out the Magic Counter.
She held it all ready to give to the first person she saw come along the road, and although she felt more frightened than she had ever felt before, Mary still hoped that something might happen to prevent her from being taken back to William Street. But at present Mary saw nobody from one end of the road to the other, nobody but Mrs. Coppert, whom she did not want to see. She was dragged along the sunny road almost blind with tears, but as they drew nearer the railway station Mrs. Coppert held her less tightly.
Mary wondered whether it was the same road that Evangeline had brought her along the day she arrived, but she did not think it could be the same, for, to-day, she had not passed the shops and small houses. At all events, whether it was the same road or not she thought she could see the small railway station only a little way off, and now Mary grew more afraid than ever, for if she was once inside the station she might be put into a train and taken back to London after all! She was just wondering whether it would not be possible to give the Magic Counter to the man who drove the train and tell him to take her back to Sister Agatha, when she uttered a cry of surprise, for she saw a tall young man coming towards them and she recognised him at once.
'It's the prince!' she exclaimed, 'it's the prince!'
Now Mary had never felt very, very fond of the prince, because he was going to take Evangeline away from her. Of course she admired him, for he was a very handsome prince, but Mary had never spoken to him although she had often seen him in the garden. She felt greatly delighted to see him now, however, and she held her Magic Counter so that she could take it out of her pocket directly he came near. Still it is not very nice to have to speak to a person you have never spoken to before, and Mary felt a little shy about it.
'It's the prince, is it?' said Mrs. Coppert laughing; 'as if princes went walking about in that way.'
'I know he is a prince,' answered Mary, 'because Sister Agatha says so.'
'Oh, so he's a friend of hers, is he?' asked Mrs. Coppert; and Mary thought she looked rather anxious. 'I suppose now he doesn't happen to know you?'
'No,' answered Mary; 'but that doesn't matter,' she added.
'Well,' said Mrs. Coppert, 'just you listen to me. What you've got to do is to walk nicely by my side as if you were coming willingly—none of your crying or hanging back, or it'll be the worse for you.'
She released Mary's arm now, and for a few yards the child walked quietly by her side, but as soon as the prince drew nearer, Mary ran away from Mrs. Coppert and stopped right in front of him, looking up anxiously into his face and holding the Magic Counter out for him to take.
'Hullo!' he cried, looking a little amused, 'what's that for?'
'Take it, please,' said Mary, pressing it against his hand. 'Please take it,' she said. 'I do want you to take it quickly,' and she glanced over her shoulder at Mrs. Coppert, who had stopped in the middle of the road.
'Are you Mary Brown?' asked the prince, taking the Magic Counter in his hand. For although he had never spoken to her, it is very likely he had heard her story from Evangeline.
'Yes,' answered Mary, 'I'm Mary Brown, and this is Mrs. Coppert. She wants to take me back to William Street and I don't want to go. And I shan't have to go now, because you must send Mrs. Coppert away and take me back to Sister Agatha.'
Then the prince looked at Mrs. Coppert and she made a curtsey. 'I understood,' said the prince, 'that Miss Royal had arranged everything satisfactorily with you.'
'It ain't very satisfactory to part with one you've been more than a mother to,' answered Mrs. Coppert, and Mary thought her voice sounded as if she were going to cry. 'You come along of me,' she added, seizing Mary's arm again. But the prince would not allow this, and in fact Mary did not feel in the least frightened now, because she had given him the Magic Counter, you see! He lifted Mary Brown in his arms and carried her towards the house, and as she looked back over his shoulder, she saw Mrs. Coppert following some distance off. When the prince carried Mary into the park Mrs. Coppert began to run, and her large face looked redder and more shiny than ever. The prince carried Mary in at the front door, and a lot of people who were pushing balls about on the green table with long sticks left off to laugh at him.
But suddenly Evangeline appeared amongst them; Mary did not know where she came from, but of course Evangeline could appear when and where she pleased; and instead of laughing when she saw the prince with Mary in his arms, she ran towards him looking very glad and whispering something that Mary could not hear. Then Evangeline took her upstairs to the bedroom, where she found Sister Agatha. Sister Agatha took Mary on her knees and said she had done wrong to leave the garden, but she kissed her instead of scolding her any more, and Mary liked it much better.
'Only you must never go away like that again,' she said. 'Because we did not know what had happened to you, and you frightened us very much. But still,' Sister Agatha added, 'even if Mrs. Coppert had taken you to London, we should have come to fetch you away again.'