The wizard, with a groan of pain, had leapt back

A few moments more and his triumph would be supreme and everlasting. She would exist no more. His evil heart thumped with excitement and glee.

A continuous and regular movement around the cave, and an underground heaving and low, distant rumbling arrested the Wizard's attention. He gasped and started, and the instrument he held fell from his grasp and shivered to atoms.

The Twins were the cause. It was they who had started the commotion. Unobserved by the Wizard in his moment of exultation, freed by him from the Bird-Fairy's Spell, they were free to follow the irresistible inclination they felt when they were under it. So they gently stroked each of the animals around, and were charmed to find that as they did so each poor creature changed to girl or boy and vanished from its prison, whilst the ground trembled and the rumbling became louder and louder, as though some unseen power was helping in the rescue. So quickly did they run round on their task that at the moment when the Wizard realised his mishap, just as he thought he had triumphed, Dulcie and Cyril had done their work. They started as they saw the Wizard lying full length on the ground next to his shattered invention, the rays of which were let loose and playing like lightning all round him.

Then they remained rooted to the spot with amazement, for just beyond was the Bird-Fairy, who before their astonished gaze became suddenly bereft of her wings and covering of feathers, and now stood before them as a lovely Princess, in draperies of silver tissue, and with a golden circlet upon her dark hair. A happy smile was on her face, as with a farewell gesture she motioned the children away.

Lying full length on the ground next to his shattered invention

There was a terrific noise as of a thunder-clap. They looked back. Nothing but a dark cloud was there!

"Come quick!" cried Dulcie, taking Cyril's hand and running off with him; "there's no shelter here. Let's get in before the rain."

And away they sped from the rocks on which they had so often played, reached home, ran indoors, and got upstairs just before the big drops turned into a heavy downpour and came pattering against the nursery window-pane.

"Are you children ready?" called up their mother in her kind, cheery voice. "Come down and have tea with me for a treat."

It was a welcome invitation. They were quick to shout their thanks and to make themselves tidy. When they entered the parlour, where the sun was peeping in again after his absence, their mother said quietly—

"I'm glad you've escaped the storm."

Later on, they all three sat in the gathering twilight at the large bow-window watching Nature going to sleep. The two children sat up very late that night—and they told their mother such an extraordinary story that she wondered how ever it could have got into their heads; and wondered where they could have read it. But they knew they hadn't read it.

"Look at the bump on Cyril's forehead!" exclaimed Dulcie, as conclusive evidence of the fight. But their mother only shook her head. Cyril often wore such marks of battle.

"And, little Mother, we are so glad to be at home." She laughed. But they meant it.

Centuries ago, an old father—as old as one of them—lay on his couch feeling that his end was near. He was not surprised; in fact, he had foreseen it as he had foreseen many other events. And he was reputed wise beyond his years, and therefore far beyond those of the people who reputed it.

So he called softly to him his three sons. They didn't hear him, being busy in different parts of the house; and it never occurred to him to ring the bell, because he was so old-fangled. He shouted to them, and they came.

"I have three things to say to you," remarked the father solemnly.

The sons fidgeted visibly; they had been studying, were not at home to any one, and particularly had not wished to be disturbed in their work. They thought that their father was going to begin another anecdote, and it put them out of humour; but they were startled when he said—

"My sons, my end is near."

Each one replied with an endearing term—just one, for they were not men of many words. And they told him "it was only his fuss." That he was "only a hundred, and didn't look as if he were going to be cut off prematurely." "That he mustn't give in and should never say 'die.'"

"I cannot argue the point," replied the old man. "Let me tell you my last wishes as briefly as I can, for my time is short."

They tried to dissuade him from talking so much, but it was of no avail, for he protested that it was their duty to listen to him, and he insisted upon having last wishes as he had read that others had had before him, and it would be for the sons to obey and unravel them as best they could.

Then the father, addressing the eldest, who was ambitious and already past middle age, spoke as follows:—

"My son, my first-born, find out the furthermost summit of the world, and when you have surmounted that, you can surmount anything."

To his second son, who was avaricious and also getting old and rather bald, he said:—

"Sit patiently, and wait, and when you can hear a voice that comes from no living throat, and can see its traces, you will want for nothing."

To the third son, and consequently his favourite, who was romantic, being better looking and naturally younger than his elder brothers, the father spoke thus:—

"You, my son, who are the pride of my heart, the joy of my life, the light of mine eyes, search the atmosphere till at your bidding it showers down burning stars; then shall you go to the beautiful Princess who awaits you, and live without labour."

And the three brothers murmured under their breath:—

"Poor old dad! He's certainly very unwell."

But he had not yet finished.

"Try to realise your ambition, my sons," he continued. "I have shown you the ways you should go. Then, and only then, will you have earned that priceless jewel—Contentment."

The old man then composed himself comfortably, and died a few years later, after a sharp attack of senile decay, leaving many regrets and unsettled accounts behind him.

When that happened the three sons were very sad all day and all night. The very next morning they called to mind his last wishes of a few years ago, and decided to ponder over them, give them the benefit of their doubt, and see if anything could be made out of them. And they stuck manfully to their resolution, especially as the creditors were hourly expected.

The eldest son looked up all the maps and geography books he could get hold of, and studied them until he came to the uncomfortable conclusion that he would certainly risk death by sea and cannibals many times before he could hope to reach the furthermost summit of the globe.

The second son sat and waited for the voice he was both to hear and trace, until at night he gave up in despair. So he decided that the only voice worth listening to was that of common-sense.

The favourite son, meanwhile, went for a long walk, bent on success, and, unlike the others, full of a new hope. Yet, search as he would, he could find no spot where the atmosphere changed into stars at his bidding, and he returned home long after dinner-time disconsolate to his supper of soup which had grown cold.

The next morning the three brothers arose in disappointment and vexation of mind. They murmured loud and long at having been sent on fairy-tale errands in a world where no clever talking animals really existed, or kind-hearted inanimate objects volunteered to befriend them on impossible quests.

As the first-born explained:—

"If I were to coax my parrot and ask him to help me in return for my many years of kindness, as they do successfully in fairy stories, he would bite me for my pains, as he always does whenever I feed him."

And the second-born said:—

"If I were to fondle a pin and said, 'Ah, pin! canst thou help me in my distress?' ten to one I would get pricked, and serve me right for being so imbecile."

"As for me," exclaimed the romantic one, "were a gentle wolf to find me mooning about the forest thinking of my beauteous Princess, surely would he stop and, with a keen sense of the fitness of things, he would not trifle with politeness, but he would eat of me as much as would satisfy his present need—perhaps even more than he could digest."

And the brothers laughed aloud in the splenetic bitterness of their three souls.

Another year went by. The sons had paid their father's debts and made some on their own account; so they held a council, and they confessed that they had idled so long because they were haunted by the rosy promise their father's words held out, and, do what they would, they could neither forget them nor yet find any solution.

Then together they pondered and thought, until one fine day (all the rest about that time had been wet) they concluded that as they were not believers in fairy tales, science perhaps might help them.

So they worked and worked and worked, each with his own object. They certainly did not lack brains, or test-tubes, or electric wire, yet just as certainly did they lack money; and, but for the occasional doing of menial work, they would have starved and starved and gone hungry.

At last the eldest son solved his mystery. Now could he surmount the furthest summit of the world, for he had invented a machine which could carry him soaring like a bird over mountains and over seas.

And the second son solved his mystery. Now he could hear a voice that came from no living throat and yet could see its traces, for he had invented an automaton that could speak and could record its words with a stylus upon tablets of wax.

And the third son solved his mystery. He had searched the atmosphere, and now at his bidding burning stars were showered down, for he had invented a kite fashioned on a wonderful wire, which went through the air and drew forth electric sparks. And his heart burned with love for the beautiful Princess whom he knew awaited him, though by this time she must be getting on.

The excitement of the brothers was great. "It is our genius we can thank!" they exclaimed all in three breaths. "Our father, steeped in his old-fangled lore, never could have foreseen our triumphs. He never could have guessed how we should solve his posers." That was their conclusion. Then they shook hands all round, congratulated one another, and went their different ways.

The eldest flew off, mounted upon his wonderful air-steed, amid the gaping of the astonished villagers, and his two brothers looked after him wistfully until he disappeared far away behind the clouds. The hopes of the traveller rose ever higher and higher as for weeks and months he soared on, exhilarated beyond all imagination. At last he came to the furthermost summit of which his dear father had spoken so solemnly. Over it sailed the son as easily as a bird. When crack! the machine broke and collapsed, and the unfortunate inventor was hurled headlong into the sea, and every moment threatened to be his last, but wasn't. As he floundered in the water he looked annoyed, and he murmured to himself:—

"There must be some mistake. Who can truly say that I have found Contentment here?"

Meanwhile the second son had borrowed a camel and gone off with his precious automaton to the great city, there to reap the reward of his labours. All the way he reckoned how he could best enjoy the vast sums of gold which would be poured into his lap. And he came to the conclusion that to gaze at it would give more pleasure than to spend any of it, except just a little for coffers to keep it in. He laughed aloud in anticipation. Arrived at his journey's end, he unpacked his treasure and set it working, and was forthwith lodged in prison—for the city turned out to be as narrow-minded as it was great, and it assured him that he must be a wizard. He assured it he wasn't, and proved that he didn't believe in fairy tales, for he had not relied upon them for help. But it was of no avail; there was nothing more to be said. This disappointing ending to so much effort and such real success encouraged him in the conviction that in the position in which he found himself he could find no legitimate ground for Contentment.

During this time the favourite son had sallied forth singing in search of the beauteous Princess. His marvellous kite was slung behind him. He wended his steps toward the only Court he knew of, where dwelt a Princess good, beautiful, and unmarried—a combination of charms of marked rarity. So joyous and merry was he, that the squirrels squeaked and scurried away at sight of him, and the very hyenas laughed in harmony as he passed by singing, "Tra-la-la!" in his blithe lightsomeness. Ah, how gladsome and thrice happy was that merry, merry morn!

Now the Princess sat in the vast hall of the palace turning up her nose at the stream of suitors that promenaded in front of her, very bored and weary at the continuous routine. But she never seemed to tire of it in her certainty that "the right one" would put in his appearance at the right moment.

She was a very spoilt lady indeed; there was no one to gainsay her. Indeed, so spoilt was she, that every night she would cry for the stars, and blame the skies for being selfish and not sparing her a few when they knew (for she had often told them) that she wished to wear them in her hair. And every one said how illogical it was of her, and no one told her they were too large for practical purposes.

One bitterly cold night, whilst she was sitting thus at her open casement, bemoaning the selfishness of the skies, and heedless of everything else, a mighty hubbub arose outside.

"What ho!" called the pretty Princess. Her attendants came tumbling in to her in their eagerness to answer her summons.

"What's without?" she inquired.

Nobody knew, and tumbled out to get to know. They rushed back and told her all at once that a brand new suitor had arrived at that unusual hour, and would she snub him at once or tarry till the morrow? It took her a little time to unravel what was said amidst such a babel of voices.

"La! Oh my!" suddenly exclaimed the Princess, her eyes riveted outside on the blackness of the night. She could scarcely believe her senses, for there, in her garden, stars were actually falling down in showers, lighting up the figure of a man who, with upstretched hand, was beckoning them to come!

He was summoned at once to the royal presence, shivering and blue with cold; but his romantic heart throbbed at the sight of so much beauty, and his face assumed a warmer hue. He was so intoxicated with delight that afterwards he could never quite tell how it all came about. As in a haze, he remembered the Princess greeting him as the one long awaited; he recollected her saying that as he could wrest the stars from the selfish skies, he could gratify her desire to wear some in her hair, and bade him go collect them.

He explained his invention. She grew impatient. He told her the electricity would kill him. She shrugged her shoulders and insisted. He declined to take the risk. Whereupon she turned into a fury in her pretty illogicality, and exclaiming that he must be the wrong man after all, she flung his invention into the fire and ordered him to be flung after it. He took the hint by the heels and fled through the window, far into the night.

Not at all Content with his romantic adventure, or with life as a whole, he enlisted and became a target in the front rank of the army.

It was, of course, some time later that the eldest brother—who had been plucked from the billows by a fisherman who happened to be passing by as usual—booked his passage home, and found on his arrival that the said home had been sold, as advertised, for building lots in eligible plots on easy terms, to pay expenses.

The second brother, in order to secure his freedom from prison, then and there smashed up his automaton and trudged home, arriving just in time to join his brother in being ordered away from their former doorstep, though still held responsible for the rates and taxes.

At that moment, too, the brother of the twain was deposited amongst them, having been invalided to his sold-up home for life.

So, in order not to trespass for fear of prosecution, they all three sat down a little outside the boundary line and recounted each to the others their adventures and their experiences. It was nightfall before they had done, and they really could hardly help laughing. And then, after thinking things out, they shook hands all round in silence.

For the prophecy had come true. They were content. The three sons were now thoroughly Content—to work no more, to do nothing more for the rest of their existence. It wasn't worth it, they said. Their disappointments were over, and they were fully Content that they should be so. The villagers, once more open-mouthed in their gaping, and open-minded too, differed from the inhabitants of the great city, and looked upon the brothers as who should say "three wise men," and took upon themselves the care of them in the workhouse, and were proud to get them, and to show them to visitors.

As to the beautiful Princess, she was changed by time into an old maid, and still kept on turning up her nose at elderly, rheumatic suitors as they passed on their usual rounds.

So the old father was right after all.

His ambitious son had surmounted everything, including disappointment.

His avaricious son had succeeded in having his wants supplied for nothing.

And his favourite son could jog along as romantically as the workhouse rules allowed, without labour and without effort.

It was Christmas Eve, and a little girl lay in her little bed, wondering what Santa Claus was going to put in her stocking this year. It was hung up where he would be sure to see it, and upon the same chair before the fireplace she had thoughtfully placed her clothes-brush in case he might like to brush off the soot from his coat.

The grate held but a few smouldering embers, for it was late, very late—at least ten o'clock—and Minna ought to have been asleep hours ago. Perhaps she would have been, only there were so many things to wonder about to-night, and one cannot be sure of wondering about them when one is fast asleep.

So after wondering about Santa Claus, she turned to the stars, which she could see through the uncurtained window: she wondered if they twinkled and winked like that because they liked it or because she liked it. Then there was the moon, which was looking straight at her in its own unblushing, beaming way and filled the room with its light; and she sat up in bed and watched it, wondering where it went to during the day.

Now opposite her bed were three pictures, coloured and framed. One was of a dainty Columbine smiling at her companion picture—a Harlequin who stood on his toes with feet crossed, and his arms folded over his staff; and the pair set her wondering what she would see at the promised pantomime.

Between them hung Minna's favourite picture. It represented a fine old moated house covered with snow. On the white path which led from the portico were tracks of little feet, manifestly made by the little smiling girl who stood in the act of passing over the bridge that spanned the moat. She appeared to be the same age as Minna, about six years old, and was dressed in a red pelisse and fur tippet. Her dark hair peeped from under a red, broad-brimmed hat with drooping feathers, and her hands were hidden in a large fur muff.

Minna herself had just such an outdoor costume, and when dressed for her walk she had often wondered where the little Picture Girl could be going so gaily for hers. And now Minna wondered that once more as she glanced at her favourite picture, upon which the moon was shining so brightly to-night, till, bathed in the bright light, it seemed to stand right out from the shadows of the room.

The Little Picture Girl

There was a creak, as though the old wardrobe wanted to stretch itself after standing still so long—a funny little way furniture has now and again. But Minna didn't think it was the wardrobe this time—she thought Harlequin had done it. For it seemed to her as though he had suddenly stretched forth his arm and struck out with his staff. No—he was just as usual, only somewhat darker, being in shadow; and as usual just ready to do something, yet never doing it.

But surely with the favourite picture there was something different!—some change! It was always morning there. And now—why, now it was night! The moon was lighting up the old moated house, and the stars were twinkling over its heavy, white-capped roof. Minna looked for the little girl in red—but there was no little girl in red on the bridge at all!

"Of course," reflected Minna, "she must be in bed behind one of those little dormer windows fast asleep—for it must be very late."

This seemed strange somehow, yet it was only just as it really ought to be. She herself never went for a morning walk in the middle of the night, nor had she ever heard of any one else doing so.

All at once, from the distant steeple which peeped through the white sparkling trees beyond the bridge, came a muffled striking of the hour, and Minna, to her increasing surprise, counted on her fingers up to ten, and then there were two more. And then, to her amazement, whom should she see on the bridge in the snow, which had begun gently to fall again—not the little girl in red—but dear old Santa Claus himself, covered up in fur and scarlet, trudging towards the house with tempting-looking parcels slung about him! Now he fixed a ladder against the thick, frost-laden ivy which covered the front of the old house, and he mounted it very carefully. Then he climbed up the roof as easily as if he had been walking along the high-road in the daylight. And then he disappeared down one of the chimneys. Very soon he reappeared without quite so many parcels, slowly descended the ladder, put it upon his shoulder, and walked off with it.

Minna's eyes followed him with the utmost astonishment and interest. Of course, she always knew that it was Santa Claus's lovely privilege to come down the chimney, but she had never actually known him to do it—and then the joy of seeing him come out again, evidently on his rounds, was breathlessly delicious!

He mounted it very carefully

All was quiet now—only the moon and the stars and Minna watching over the slumbering house and garden, about which the soft snow-flakes hovered and fluttered. She had more than ever to wonder about now. She longed for a peep—just one peep—inside that beautiful house, to see if the little Picture Girl was really asleep.

Harlequin must have guessed what Minna wanted, for there is no doubt that he gave her a knowing look (though it might have been meant for sweet Columbine); and just as surely Minna saw his arm stretch out and heard the rap of his staff upon the picture frame. Then he pretended he hadn't done it; but she forgot all about him, so great was her interest in what she saw.

At that touch of Harlequin's the scene had changed to a dainty bedroom. It was dawn. A red pelisse and hat hung upon a peg on the door, and a large muff peeped from its box on the shelf. A rosy light tinged the face of the child who was sleeping there in the old wooden bedstead, and woke her up. The first thing the little Picture Girl did was to look with content into her stocking. It was very fat. And then, with a little pant of delight, she discovered a lovely doll lying on her pillow. First she hugged and then she kissed it; then she laid her new treasure beside her, her heavy eyelids drooped, and she fell asleep again.

And nothing stirred.

"More, please!" said Minna, by this time quite at home with Harlequin. Again he gave that knowing look, and did as she asked. A rap, and once more she saw the garden. It had stopped snowing, and the sun was rising over the old roof.

Suddenly a little sweep appeared, swung himself up by the ivy, crept stealthily up the tiles, and disappeared down a chimney. In a moment he reappeared with a doll and a fat-looking stocking, all so quickly that, before Minna had time to clasp her hands and cry out, he was gone altogether. She looked at Harlequin, but he paid no attention.

"More!" she repeated eagerly. Harlequin's staff then moved and rapped.

And there was the breakfast-room in the old moated house. The master of it sat at the table reading his newspaper. Soon he looked up and nodded encouragingly at his little daughter, who very seriously was making his tea. She nodded back and smiled. But it was a sad little smile, and her eyes were rather red, as though something had happened.

Then the door opened, and, to every one's surprise, in marched a stout beadle. In one hand he held a doll and a stocking full of sweets, and in the other he held the collar of a little sweep, with the little sweep wriggling inside it. Close behind there came a tiny crippled girl, who moved painfully by the aid of a crutch to the boy's side, and laid a trembling hand on his arm. The brother and sister were much like one another, in feature and in squalor. Great tears were rolling down her cheeks, and her poor face was no whiter with pain than his with fright beneath the soot, though, looking lovingly at her, he tried to appear brave.

The beadle noticed the little Picture Girl's look of recognition at sight of her lost treasures, and as he gave them back to her he pointed to the black marks on the doll's frock, which tallied with the little sweep's grimy paw, and then jerked his head towards the crippled child in whose possession he had found them. Then the stout beadle gave the boy a shake, just to remind him of his wrong-doing—as if any further reminder was needed!—and made for the door, dragging the wretched offender after him.

But the little Picture Girl showed so much distress, stopped him, and looked at him so piteously, and with so much kindness in her sweet eyes, that he let go his grip of the collar. Then she put the presents into the boy's hand, and pushed him gently towards his sister. But the lad shook his head sadly, and looked more ashamed than ever.

In marched a stout beadle

The little Picture Girl glanced at her father, who had been silently watching the scene. He nodded, so she pressed them on the boy, whose eyes now filled with tears as he gazed, humbled and grateful, at the beautiful young lady whose generosity saved him from punishment. Meanwhile, the gentleman Christmas-boxed the beadle, who smiled fatly and went his way. Then, for a moment or two, the picture-father's uplifted finger wagged a warning at the boy, who hung his head: but Minna could see that it was not so very terrible, because, if the boy had not confessed his fault, how would the beadle have known in what house he had yielded to temptation for his sister's sake? The little cripple dried her eyes at seeing her brother safe, and was very grateful for the gifts she hesitated to accept. But she had a right to keep them now; and it was not her fault that she was the innocent cause of her brother's offence.

Food from the breakfast-table was wrapped up in the newspaper, the big bundle was put into the little sweep's arms, and the two poor waifs who had entered so miserable were sent away happy at the bright moment which had entered into their dark lives, whilst the little Picture Girl, who for the second time had lost the presents Santa Claus had brought her, looked after the poor little pair quite content, and smiled as she waved good-bye with her pretty hand.

Then the master of the old moated house wiped his spectacles, which somehow had become quite misty. He lifted up his little daughter in his arms and kissed her, and, putting his hand into his pocket, drew from his purse a gold piece which she took with a laugh of surprise and delight, and threw her arms round his dear bronzed neck.

Minna saw nothing more. She must have fallen fast asleep.

It was very late when she awoke. The first thing she did was to smile as she trotted off to look at what Santa Claus had put in her stocking. She had seen him on his rounds. She had seen his parcels. Dear, kind old Santa Claus, who saves up all the year to be the loving, generous friend to little children at Christmas-time. Minna smiled again as the thought flashed through her mind. She approached her stocking. It looked rather thin—horridly thin. It was empty! She ran to her pillow. Nothing on it, nothing under it! She could not understand it. Oh, Santa Claus!

She gave a big gulp, and decided to wait and see what her father would say about it. She had to bustle too, for the bell would very soon ring for breakfast, at which it was her duty to preside.

"Papa, Santa Claus has forgotten me!" were her first words after the morning kiss.

Smiled as she waved good-bye

At this, her father pursed up his lips with a blank look. "Dear, dear! Good gracious! 'Pon my word! What a forgetful old Santa Claus. I'm afraid he's getting past his work. Perhaps," he said, turning to the window, as a tear was gathering in each of Minna's bright eyes, "the snow was too thick."

"No, Funnyums" (she often called him that), "it wasn't the snow. I know he was out in it, 'cos I saw him."

"Saw him, did you?" he replied, smiling. "Well, perhaps he gave all the toys away till there were none left, and then, as the shops were shut, there were no more to be had!"

Minna now felt sure her father was joking as usual, and that there must be some secret.

"But perhaps, Minna, Santa Claus came to my room by mistake," he added. "In fact, it occurred to me that he might. He's getting short-sighted, you know, and—we are so very much alike. Suppose you go and see!"

Away she ran, and there, sure enough, were Funnyums's two socks hung up! One looked full, the other looked empty. She found in the full one all sorts of good things to eat. Minna emptied it quickly.

"I wish Funnyums wore stockings," she murmured. Then she went to the empty one, which wasn't empty, because right down in the toe there was a gold piece!

Then Funnyums was hugged, and Funnyums was thanked, and scolded for being up to his tricks again, and then hugged once more to make it all right. All that stirring time he was quietly pretending to read his newspaper—just as though he really wanted to read it at all!

And Minna forgot everything in the excitement of Christmas Day. That night she slept soundly. The following day she went to the pantomime, and afterwards dreamt about Columbine.

It was only on the morrow that she noticed again her favourite picture, and then her mind wandered back to the wonderful things that had happened there. And as she gazed at the little girl in red, who was going out so joyously for her morning walk, it occurred to her where the little Picture Girl must be going to—she was going out, as Minna was, to spend the gold piece her father had given her!

"Ah, she deserved it," Minna said to herself. "I—I don't quite think I've deserved mine—that is, quite so much. I should like to do something for children who suffer and are poor," she muttered, "like—like the children in the hospital." And slowly, as she thought it out, she made up her mind that the doll she was going to buy should be a very small one, and that the rest of the money from the gold piece she would send to the "Children's Hospital Fund."

Seldom has any child felt happier than Minna did that sunny morning as she donned her red pelisse and hat, and took her muff from its box. She paused at the door, and glanced at the little Picture Girl, who was smiling back at her. "A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!" said Minna out loud, dropped her a little curtsey, nodded gaily, and ran out.

"She pricked her hand with the point of the spindle, and fell into a deep, deep sleep."

And the creepers that had been climbing over the castle walls for a long time, searching for the turret chamber wherein the sleeping Princess lay—the ivy, the jessamine, the briar rose—climbed round odd niches and corners, as if all were curious to see the lovely maiden under the Fairy Spell. But the years went by and none had reached so high, though one sweet little briar rose had not given up hope, and crept steadily onward and spread as it went. And this is the dream of the beautiful Princess:—

She dreamt that she arose and wandered forth out of the castle gates, on to the sunlit terrace. Her attendants had dozed over their labours, and she wondered at their laziness. The peacocks had stopped in their strutting and had fallen asleep; even the singing-birds in the trees had ceased their trilling and hidden their little heads under their wings. But the Princess did not tarry. She went straight on, past the closed-up daisies and sunflowers and the drooping foxgloves, past the goldfish drowsing in the fountain basin, for all around Nature was hushed and had fallen asleep.

Without hesitation she crossed the meadow of wild flowers, and reached the willow path that skirted the sparkling river, and did not stop until she reached a willow larger than the rest. Then, bending under its branches, she neared the water's edge. There an old wooden skiff was moored; lifting her silken robe, she stepped into it, unfastened the cord, and, reclining on the embroidered cushions, she closed her eyes with a happy sigh. Away drifted the bark with its lovely burden. The sunlight turned to twilight with lurid gleams, and pale green flecks jewelled the sky; the twilight turned to dark grey and silver, and the moon and stars watched her on her way. The bark floated to where the silent river joined the open sea; still peacefully on it went, over the bosom of the moonlit ocean, onward into the night.

The Princess's sweet thoughts were disturbed by the sudden stopping of her craft, which had run aground on the sands just where the tiny wavelets retreated shyly, to venture again and as quickly withdraw.

Soft and balmy was the summer's night, and on the breeze music came, wafted towards the young Princess, who smiled and landed lightly, drawn by the bright strains which led her, following, to a pleasure ground. Lights hung festooned in the great trees, and in an open space peasants in their picturesque costumes were dancing, and laughing as they stepped. The Princess, from behind a tree, gazed on the scene, on the glades and lake in the distance—all mysterious in the night; and as she listened to the laughter and the music, she knew she had never heard anything so delightful before.

Happy at the sight and sounds, she moved from behind the tree, and she saw a young man approach her with great respect—one of a group who were not dancing. The Princess would have fled, but he was already close; and although his dress betokened origin as humble as that of those around, he was as handsome as a young god. They looked into one another's eyes; then she accepted his invitation to dance.

Afterwards they sat together on a mossy knoll and talked low—all was silent around, and the light of the stars was reflected in the glow-worms, but the Princess did not tell him who she was; and when he spoke of a quest on which he was about to start, to find his unknown betrothed, who awaited him in a distant land, she wept. Her sweet tears fell upon his hand, which he raised to his lips and reverently kissed them there, and she smiled on him for doing so. But the smile faded as an old woman came, and, plucking him by the sleeve, told him it was the hour to go. And when the Princess was alone she felt as though she had never known before what it was to be alone.

How long a time passed by she did not know. But again she saw the handsome peasant youth. And her heart sank as she thought that her release could come only through the kiss of some king's son who could claim her for his wife. Then she pondered no more, for she saw the traveller now, far, far away, where she could not get near him; and he was in a forest path, wrestling with desperate fury with a giant who had barred the way.

Breathlessly she watched the youth as he struggled in the brawny monster's clutch. The Princess, moved by his stress, cried out in her sleep. Then the rays of the noonday sun, redoubling their forceful heat, shone forth with overpowering energy. The giant, struck with the pain of it, clasped his hands to his head, and fell backwards like a log to the ground.

The Princess knew that her love was safe, and by her fear for his safety she knew, too, how dear he was to her. And she went on dreaming—dreaming happily of what might be the future shared with one she loved so much.

Then she accepted his invitation to dance.

Her heart fluttered as with foreboding of evil. She beheld a range of mountains, and up the foot of one of the peaks a peasant youth toiled his weary course. But the mountain was so slippery that his efforts were of no avail. As he gazed round she could see the handsome features, clouded by fatigue that almost was despair. She saw that the mountain was glistening, and that it was made of ice.

Then she felt the breath of summer. She saw it lift the white pall from the earth—she saw it melt the belt of ice, and as she looked the mountain dissolved into water under the warmth of her love. She saw that he was safe, trudging over the carpet of cowslips, smiling as he went. She wanted to run towards him, but he passed through a thicket and disappeared from sight.

The Princess arose to follow him. But she lost her way, and wandered on and on through a dense forest, where nothing stirred but scampering hares and startled squirrels.

At last, towards evening, she came to a path all gay with glowing flowers, refreshed by their evening bath of dew, and whispering to one another a hushed good-night ere closing their eyes to the light. As the Princess passed along, the strains of an organ fell upon her ear, and she saw a great temple before her. She stood at the open door. Within, hundreds of candles lighted the vast grey dome. And far beyond, in a haze of mystery, stood the man she loved, and by his side his bride, all veiled in white. And she knew his quest was done, and that he had found her whom he had gone to seek. Then there was a stir in the multitude, and a peal of bells rang out on the stillness without. The Princess sank down and felt as though she swooned.

A kiss was on her lips, and she trembled, for she knew the moment had come for the Prince to claim her. But the kiss was sweet. The Sleeping Beauty came slowly back to consciousness; she awoke, and before her was a tall knight in silver armour. His handsome features were lighted up with joy: she knew him well, and, enfolded in his embrace, she murmured happily:—

"It is you, O Prince, the youth of my dream!"

And the little briar rose peeped in at the turret casement and nodded in the breeze at the lovers as they sat close clasped, and as the bells pealed forth, told the news to the ivy, which told it to the jessamine, until soon the tidings spread over the great city far and wide, and over all the joyful land.

It is you, O Prince, the youth of my dream!

"Just run up to the Grange and tell her ladyship the bull-pup is doing nicely, and that you bandaged its leg as she showed you. Make haste, lass, if you're not too tired, as her ladyship would like to know before she drives out."

"All right, Dad; I'll run. It's much too cold to walk."

Rogers, the gamekeeper, glanced with pride after the little retreating figure, and then, as his old mother was standing in the draughty porch awaiting him, he kissed her wrinkled face, and they entered the cottage together.

Nancy was soon at the Grange, her cheeks aglow under the scarlet hood of her cloak. New people were at the big house, and there seemed a deal of bustle going on. She waited in the vestibule and stared at the brightness, at the beautiful pictures and decorations where, ever since she had known the Grange, all had been damp and decay. She had never seen anything like this before, and she was enjoying the novelty, mixed with awe at all the grandeur, when a little girl richly dressed, about three years old, ran up to her. Nancy dropped a little bob of a curtsey, as her grandmother had taught her to do to the gentry.

Little Iris was not at all shy, and was full of one thought only—the thought of Christmas—so that she burst out with: "D'you know to-morrow's Christmas Day?" and, without waiting for a reply, she babbled on: "I'm going to have such boo'ful things—a dolly that sends kisses, a pamberlator for her to ride in, a gold watch with real ticks, and a titten with real scratches. Guess who'll bring them."

"Her ladyship?" ventured Nancy, dazzled at such a haul of magnificence.

"No, not Mummy," exclaimed Iris, capering with delight and revealing more of her frills and laces.

"I can't guess, Miss," said Nancy, smiling through her diffidence—which was just what Iris wanted her to say.

"It's Santa Claus! Santa Claus always brings me just what I want. Isn't it clever?"

"Who's Santa Claus? Is it your aunt, Miss?"

"I'm 'peaking to you about Santa Claus—a gen'lman. I've not seen him—never been able to catch him yet."

"Catch him! But who tells him what you want?" She was getting quite interested.

"The little bird."

Nancy felt completely mystified. What a different world this seemed to hers!

"What toys are you going to get?" continued Iris.

"Oh, no toys. I live in the cottage in the forest. Dad is always so busy, and I help him look out for poachers—so I have useful presents, I don't have toys. Granny gave me this warm cloak last year; and then, Dad's pockets get so full of sweets that they last for months."

"Sweets and useful things aren't p'esents," said Iris, surprised. "Poor little girl! Wouldn't you like toys?" she added.

"I think so, Miss—at least, I've not seen many. Cousin Janey has a skipping-rope and a workbox, but she won't let me touch them."

"Ah! you've been here long enough, Iris darling. I hear Nurse calling you," exclaimed a soft voice, and her ladyship, with a kindly look at the visitor, laughingly caught up her little daughter in her arms before the child even knew she was there. Then she received the message, gave the little messenger a slice of cake, and in a moment Nancy was leisurely munching the fee as she trudged her way back on the grass through the frosty park. The dusk was gathering, when suddenly in the stillness she heard a dull thwack as of a stick against a branch—which caused her to stop and listen. She knew what the sound meant.

"That's one of those poachers: he's knocked down a pheasant, I'll be bound!" said the gamekeeper's daughter to herself. "I'll just be after him!" and, gathering her skirts close around her, she crept through into a thick plantation. She had the intrepid fearlessness of her father, whose companion on his rounds she had been, when no danger was thought to be afoot, ever since she was old enough to ride pickaback. It came quite natural to her to help him, and though the old grandmother grumbled at her boyish ways she said nothing, for the child was obedient enough, and could read and write and sew; and, moreover, her son would brook no interference with his treasure—especially since her mother had died.

"Drop that!" cried Nancy. "Who's there?"

Hearing only a girl's voice, a rough-looking fellow emerged grinning from behind a tree, with the dead bird he had just picked up in his hand. A limp bag was slung over his shoulder, a stout staff was in his other hand, and a snarling "lurcher" dog slunk at his feet.

"Steady, Muffins!" said the man, giving the cowering animal a gentle kick as a reminder. "Now, Missy, what can I do for you?"