The two reindeer ... sped rapidly away

The moon was shining down on the sledge and its strange occupants, and Eva was just going to ask if he could tell her who the other little girl was, and all about her, when she felt her arms were being disengaged from where they clung about him, and she found herself gently deposited on firm ground, and alone.

The Honourable Dot barked with delight because it was Christmas Eve, and it was going with its little mistress to dine downstairs; and very joyful and succulent the event proved to be. Not long after, when it was fast asleep in its basket, Eva was sitting up in bed waiting anxiously to receive the visit of her recent host. Father Christmas had done her so much good, and she wanted to tell him so, as she had had no opportunity of doing before.

She was dropping asleep in that attitude, when she heard a slight noise. Immediately she started up, and clutching tightly at a rapidly retreating figure, she laughed aloud to find she had succeeded in catching Father Christmas, who, mildly yielding to her entreaties, sat down by her side.

"I have wakened you," he said regretfully.

"Oh no, I was waiting for you." And she told him about the happy time she had spent with him, and thanked him nicely. "What a dreadful little girl that other Eva was!" she concluded. "Who was she?"

"Ah," said Father Christmas very quickly, "she is what you might be were you to give way to bad feelings. I wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, my dear!" and without explaining further he kissed her and rapidly withdrew on his business.

DAYLIGHT

Outside the uncurtained window the sun was shining. Snow had been falling softly, and was piled high on the sill. And over the hushed landscape from the far distance the Christmas bells were ringing. Eva joyfully hugged a large doll, which she had found asleep on her pillow.

It was only later, when she thought over past events in detail, that it appeared to her, though she had not paid attention to it at the time, that Father Christmas seemed ill at ease when he was her visitor—perhaps it was because he was in a hurry. Somehow he was different from the stout, merry-faced old gentleman she had been to see; he had strangely shrunk to nearly as thin as her own father, and as pale, comparatively, which she thought very odd.

And when she looked up into that wonderful and mysterious old chimney again, she saw that it was all dark and black, and as uninviting as any ordinary dirty old chimney; so that it was quite hopeless for her ever to venture up it again to find old Father Christmas "At Home."

If it had not been Maisie's birthday this story could never have been written. But the day had come for her to be five years old, and, like every child of that age, she could no more help having a fifth birthday than she could imagine having it without a party. At present she was unconscious of all the delights in store, because it was only just dawn, and her curls were still tumbled about her flushed face on the pillow, and her eyes were still fast closed in sleep.

But in a small bed quite close to hers there was a little girl, who was very wide awake indeed, as she leant over with neck outstretched, gazing eagerly at all the beautiful things so temptingly displayed on a table at the foot of Maisie's cot—presents from every one in the house: Hilda's box of beads bought with her own money; a long-promised story-book resplendent in bright blue and brilliant in gold; some new furniture for the doll's house; and a something that glittered strangely—Hilda nearly toppled over in her curiosity to see it. She found it to be a big red cracker with a funny coloured portrait of a smirking crocodile stuck on the outside. "What lovely things!" she thought, "and all for Maisie!"

In two months' time Hilda was going to celebrate her birthday and be eight years old, and have a fuss made over her. But two whole months seemed such a long way off—such a very long time to wait! Into her dark eyes there came a strange look of envy and longing, and her handsome face with the resolute expression contrasted strangely with her sister's as she turned anxiously towards the fair little sleeper.

Holding her breath, Hilda crept slowly down on to the floor, stealthily approached the table, and seized the beautiful cracker. "Surely that would not be missed," she reflected. Just then Maisie stirred uneasily, which brought a flush of shame to the elder girl's cheeks; but hearing nothing further, Hilda jumped into bed and pushed the cracker under her own pillow. The crackling of the paper woke Maisie, who sat up, and in the middle of a big yawn espied the table, and remembered the great event. "Oh, Hilda," she exclaimed, "just look!" She was too excited as she handled her treasures to notice that Hilda never stirred, that she only answered shortly, "Yes, I know," and didn't even volunteer to say whom the beads came from.

During the whole morning Maisie's excitement continued; she hopped about everywhere, watching the arrangements for the afternoon party, and chattering about who were coming; so much so, that do what she would, Hilda could obtain no opportunity of being alone so that she might satisfy her burning curiosity as to what was inside the cracker. She had dropped it behind the toy-box in the nursery, and there it lay, whilst all the time Maisie could not understand what made her sister so restless and impatient.

Immediately after lunch, however, Hilda was able to satisfy her longing at last. She picked up the cracker and hurriedly opened it. What first came to light was a big sweet wrapped in a printed motto: "Always do what is right and you will be happy." She read it with a pang of mental shame, which was quickly followed by one of physical discomfort, for she had popped the sweet into her mouth and now would as quickly have popped it out again, only it was too late, as she had already swallowed the horrid thing, which was filled with a liquid that tasted of bad scent. Making a wry face, she rolled up the offending motto into a tiny ball and threw it into the empty grate. Still, it was soothing to find in the cracker a neatly rolled up packet of pink and green paper, which evidently formed something amusing—a bonnet, a cap, or perhaps an apron. At the same time she drew forth the "cracking thing," which she loved to pull and hear it go "crack." But she always did so at arm's length with her head turned away, and she was too frightened to pull it all by herself.

Their nurse's voice was heard calling Maisie to come up and be dressed. Hilda, with a guilty, conscience-stricken look, had barely time to throw the useless "cracking thing" out of the open window, and to hide the rest of the cracker in the first thing at hand (which happened to be the doll's house), when they both entered laughing and carried her off too, to be curled and be-ribboned for the party.

"I've seen my birthday cake, Hilda," cried Maisie, capering about. "It's booful!" But Hilda still tasted that nauseous liqueur from the sweet, and couldn't enter into any pleasing ideas of cake.

Ready first, she ran into the nursery, curious as ever as to the pink and green paper bundle, took it out, unfolded it, and found that it would have formed a crown—only it didn't join together; she had torn it in her hurry. She stamped her foot with vexation, and was wondering if she could stick the two ends together when that tiresome Maisie came running in from the next room with one of her new bronze shoes on to show how beautiful it looked. Quick as lightning Hilda had to hide her secret again.

"What are you doing with the doll's house? Look at my new shoe!" exclaimed Maisie all in a breath.

And Hilda made a great fuss over the new shoe, and felt horridly out of temper.

Punctually on the stroke of three, the first of the birthday party began to arrive—two little girl cousins, who at once begged to be allowed to see if there was anything new in the doll's house. Hilda's heart sank at these words, and she tried to draw their attention away, but to no avail, for Maisie, moving towards it, said they must see the new treasure there. With difficulty and something like a scuffle Hilda, grown desperate, prevented her from opening it, and managed to do so herself, quickly stuffing the bunch of paper into her pocket without being noticed. Much admiration was bestowed on the new addition—a little motor car which had been conveniently placed in the kitchen of the doll's house ready to take out for an airing the little china lady and gentleman who sat so rigidly and smiled so vacantly in the storey above.

Meanwhile, Hilda was inwardly owning to a feeling akin to dislike for the very thought of that cracker, for the paper was bulging out her pocket, flatten it as she would. She was not happy, for never before had she done anything underhand. In fact she always tried to be an example for her young sister, and she already regretted having given way to the momentary impulse of envy. However, there was no time now for thoughts or remorse, and when she reached the drawing-room she forgot all about her trouble in helping to receive the guests.

Eight little girls were grouped in one corner of the room whispering, with eyes busily engaged staring at one another's sashes; whilst eight little boys had flocked together and were looking sheepishly from out of an opposite corner. One boy, however—who had been gazing long at Hilda—with heroic resolution detached himself from his kind, and entered the rival camp, where he was welcomed with pleasure and interest. He was a young Highlander, with sandy hair and many freckles, but his attraction was great, for he wore his native costume. The jewelled hilt of a dagger showed above one plaid stocking, and on his shoulder he wore a fascinating brooch with a large brown stone, which was the envy and admiration of all the little ladies present.

Suddenly the guests were all swooped upon by a big lady, Maisie's mother, mixed up, and disentangled into couples; a piano was set going, and they danced, hopped, and twirled about, wondering if they liked it; the girls thought they did, and the boys were sure they didn't—all except the Scotch boy, who had constituted himself Hilda's devoted partner, and was enjoying it immensely. The polka finished, these two sat chatting merrily at the window, when all at once Hilda became silent. She happened to catch sight of something sticking out of the ivy on the sill. It was the "cracking thing" which she had thrown from the window above. Her partner was surprised to see her look as though she were going to cry. She didn't dare do that.

Just then tea was announced. Weighty recollection of warnings from home-counsellors came to the minds of the children, which warnings, however, conveniently faded away at sight of the good things set forth so temptingly in the dining-room: custards, jellies, and all those concoctions beloved of the youthful interior. But the chief interest centred in Maisie's gorgeous cake, which had her name and age flowingly written in coloured sugar, surrounded by the most realistic and sweetest of red roses imaginable, nestling in the coolest-looking golden leaves.

Hilda sat by the side of her Scotch cavalier, who had taken her in, and who was much concerned when he found that she had no appetite, but less distressed when he found that that fact did not affect his.

Once during the meal, Hilda heard their mother ask Maisie, as she helped her cut the birthday cake, what was in her cracker, and Maisie replied, as she looked up from her struggles, "What cracker?" but then, in her anxiety to know why Hilda refused to taste any of her cake till the morrow, she did not pursue the subject.

After tea more excitement, for there was Mr. Punch and his company, who were in excellent form.

"Oi, Oi, Oi!" repeated that gentleman for the dozenth time, as he bobbed about aimlessly, in his anxiety to hit the clown and take the patient Toby between his jointless arms.

Later on, the eyelids of the party children began to grow heavy, though the eyes remained unnaturally bright; and tempers became less even and more natural. And so, like everything else, the birthday party came to an end, and "Good-byes" were said with regret. That night cots and beds were not despised, nor did they prove unwelcome for once, for little tired heads were rested gratefully on cool pillows. Maisie was an exception; she tossed about on hers, too happy and excited to get to sleep, whilst Hilda, worn out, lay on her back with her mouth wide open, breathing heavily, and dreaming.

Hilda dreamt that she was alone in a boat on a ruffled lake. On a white flag in the prow was a motto printed large, but upside down. She dreamt that all around the frail craft, which rocked on the stormy waters, were grinning crocodiles wearing broken crowns made of pink coral and green fluttering paper. She crouched low and tried to hide, for she knew that if the horrid creatures found her out she was lost for ever. Land was quite close, but she didn't know how to get there, because her frock was made of red crackling stuff, which glistened and made a noise whenever she moved.

She felt sick with fright, and sobbed and moaned at her terrible plight, and sobbing, she woke to find that it was quite dark, that the moon was shining on Maisie smiling in her sleep, and that she herself had been dreaming.

At breakfast next morning, Maisie and their mother were already seated when Hilda silently took her place next her chattering little sister; but it seemed to her that their mother looked unusually grave. When Hilda lifted the cover off her bread and milk bowl, Maisie suddenly looked in it and exclaimed: "Oh, how pretty." But Hilda turned very red, and she hung her head ashamed. For in the bowl there was no bread and milk—nothing but a crumpled red glazed paper with a hateful picture of a smiling crocodile, something pink and green, a tiny paper ball of printed paper, and a stiff thing sticking up—easily guessed at, but now blurred and indistinct to Hilda's tearful view.

"Oh, Maisie," she sobbed, "it was your crack—cracker. I—I took it from your table. Do forgive me—I've been so—so very miserable."

And their mother, rising gently and saying nothing, quickly took the proofs of wrong-doing away, whilst Hilda felt Maisie's arm creep round her neck and Maisie's kisses on her wet cheek....

And in her repentance her fault was forgiven.

Two months later, Hilda found amongst the presents on her birthday table a lovely cracker made of silver paper with a little heart of real gold attached with a blue ribbon on the outside. And then Hilda ran and whispered eagerly in her mother's ear, who looked very pleased and kissed her. And Maisie was surprised and happy too, for Hilda put in her hand the lovely cracker with its little heart of gold for her very own to keep.

"I should like to go shooting, and see what the earth is like," sighed a young star. But the Evening Star knew that meant many dangers, for down there life was not so happy or serene as up in their lofty sphere. And she knew, too, that he would go his own way as youth always does; and she felt sorry, for she did not like to part with this bright little star. And so he went. That fine crisp night the tiny star was seen to shoot right down to earth—and the light of his presence was no longer there.

A hard frost was on the ground. The shops were shut, for it was Boxing Day. Those who were not on enjoyment bent were snugly quartered by their own fireside, with the firm conviction that nothing would tempt them away. Some, however, had business to attend to in spite of its being a holiday, and old Joshua was one of these. He was known as "old" Joshua because his hair had turned prematurely white—as white as the rime which had gathered on his shabby hat as he hurried along the murky, dimly lighted street which led to the great theatre. The wind that entered so unceremoniously through his thin coat was biting cold—the violin he carried was more carefully muffled up than he.

"One, two, three," he counted, as a neighbouring clock began chiming; "four, five, six!"

He quickened his pace. He had to be in his place in the orchestra in extra good time, as it was the first night of the new pantomime. And before that, he had some one coming to meet him at the back entrance.

"I shall be there all in good time," he muttered. "By Jupiter!" he exclaimed, as he tripped and nearly fell over something that was lying straight in his path. Only when he stooped down did he discover that on the pavement lay a small child, all cold to the touch, with fair curls dishevelled, and eyes wide open that seemed to see nothing.

Old Joshua's heart filled with pity and indignation. "What a shame," he muttered, "to abandon such a treasure as this! And no one about who can help me." He looked anxiously around—no one was in sight; so he hurriedly went in search of a policeman. When he had succeeded in finding one, and the two reached the spot together, a crowd had collected and was gazing wonderingly at the tiny, prostrate form.

"Stand back there!" commanded the man of law.

The clock chimed the quarter-hour. Old Joshua felt the cold no more—he was in a nervous heat at the delay; nevertheless, he waited till a cab was hailed. Then the policeman tenderly lifted the helpless little creature into it, and the driver wrapped his rug around it. "To the 'orspital!" directed the policeman, stepping inside, and the vehicle was driven smartly away. The crowd dispersed, and with it old Joshua, as quickly as he could hurry through the throng.

At the stage door he found his little Stella awaiting him with sparkling eyes, in anticipation of her annual treat.

"Daddy, you're late," she said, holding up a finger in mock gravity; then she clapped her hands with delight at his arrival.

Old Joshua would not distress her with the cause of his delay, so he only stooped and kissed her. "Give me your hand, old lady," he said, "and come along quickly. Through this door—that's right. Up you go. Don't step on my poor toes or push against me when we turn the corner more than you can help, or old Daddy Joshua and his fiddle might be a little out of tune!" And, laughing as they went, they climbed right up to the top back row of the vast empty theatre. There a smiling attendant welcomed her as quite an old little friend, and when he had seen his daughter raised up on a seat by means of a big hassock, old Joshua, with a nod of thanks, hastened below to join his comrades of the orchestra, and help create the squeaky din which they called "tuning up."

At last the lights were turned up. An eager troop of pleasure-seekers tumbled into the gallery in a rush, and while Stella was looking around her every available seat was quickly occupied. The other parts of the house were filling rapidly in more dignified style, and soon every place was tenanted in honour of the great Christmas pantomime. The large orchestra struck up, and when the overture was over the gorgeously painted curtain slowly rose.

Stella, perched up aloft, forgot where she was, and everything else in the world went straight out of her head as she gazed with rapture at the lovely scene that was peopled with fairies, and goblins, and wonderful beings, disporting themselves in a land that was all glitter and gold. And so the hours flew by, in a wonder of loveliness, fairy story, and fun.

"'Ave a bit o' orange, dearie?" asked the stout woman who was sitting next to her. But Stella was too engrossed to think about oranges or neighbours, nor even did she feel the light nudge that followed. The woman merely turned to her husband, smiled, and held her peace; while Stella threw back her head and shook with laughter, as the Clown tickled Pantaloon with a poker that looked extremely red hot. She wasn't a bit tired, and was quite surprised to hear "God Save the King," and to find the whole beautiful show was already over, like a dream. It had seemed to her as though it must go on for ever.

Flushed and excited, and a good deal jostled by the moving crowd, she made her way to the staircase in order to meet the motherly attendant on the next landing, who had promised to take her to her father at the stage door. Stella was walking down carefully step by step, when two young men came roughly tearing past her. A sudden push threw her off her balance. She knew she screamed because she heard it. Then she knew and heard nothing more.

Great fun was going forward in the biggest ward in the Children's Hospital. Father Christmas had suddenly appeared amidst much cheering and clapping of hands. Not only were the little inmates, the nurses, and young doctors beaming with smiles, but Father Christmas himself felt the glow of jollity as he busily handed the toys he carried to his two attendant clowns. These nimble, funny fellows ran from him to the cots, backwards and forwards, giving such beautiful toys, and saying such funny things as they gave them, that every child was soon laughing and happy, even those with a bandaged head or limb, or a pain inside or outside; and the unwonted excitement brought a flush to their pale cheeks and brightness to their eyes.

But none of the jollification was seen by the new little inmate of the cot that was in the far corner. A tiny blind boy lay there, with pretty, fair curls, and large dark eyes that he turned pathetically around. He had not spoken at all. Earlier in the evening he had shivered much, and groaned. Now he lay peacefully smiling, for his small hands held a musical-box that Father Christmas himself had placed there, and set working, and the tinkle-tinkle of a pretty tune seemed to please and soothe him.

When the Christmas visitors had gone away, and the dolls had been hushed to sleep by their new mothers, and the woolly animals lay hugged tightly in the arms of drowsy owners, a little girl in a swoon from an accident was carried into the ward. The sprained ankle had been dressed; quietly and quickly she was put to bed, and consciousness soon returned.

"Where am I?" said Stella, staring about her.

"You fell down, dear," replied Nurse Evelyn, "and we are taking care of you until you are fetched home. You'll soon be all right again. Does your ankle hurt much? Don't move it."

"It feels funny," replied Stella, "but doesn't hurt now it is still—thank you very much," she added, staring about her in amazement at the strange faces, the holly in the strange surroundings, at the nurses in their pretty costumes with their white caps and aprons, and at the sleeping children clutching their toys. In the cot next to hers, however, the little fair-haired boy looked awake. His eyes in their aimless wandering were now fixed on the high window through which the stars were twinkling at him, and the Evening Star looked fixedly down upon him. His hands lay listlessly on the polished wooden box. The music had changed, and in his ear it sang of "Angels ever bright and fair."

Stella, who was watching him with so much interest, asked who he was.

"He is a little foundling," said Nurse Evelyn. "He was abandoned in the cold streets."

Stella turned her head on the pillow towards him again, and asked timidly—

"Are you better?"

"Talk to him to-morrow, dear," advised Nurse Evelyn.

As she gazed at him Stella thought she had never seen so beautiful a child. She stretched out her arm and took his tiny palm in hers; then he turned his face towards her and smiled, contentedly and trustingly leaving his hand in hers. And thus with love and pity in her heart she fell fast asleep.

And in the night she saw a wonderful thing—a moonbeam that seemed to come down into the room—the small hand in hers unloosed itself, and the boy arose looking gloriously beautiful; his eyes were shining, and he could see the bright light, and he began climbing up the beam, so easily that it looked like gliding, so happily now that he could see his way and whither it was leading him.

The next morning Stella's first thought was of the lovely vision, and of her little companion. She turned over and looked with surprise. The cot in the corner was empty—so very empty, and tidy with its smoothed fresh sheets.

"Oh, where's he gone?" she exclaimed.

Nurse hurried to her side. "Who, dear?"

"There—from the empty cot."

The Nurse looked sweet and grave. "He has gone where he came from, dear."

"And where did he come from?" asked Stella, with a curious sense of loneliness.

"Where all children come from."

Of course, Stella knew that all children are Heaven-born, and come from the stars. Why, her own name meant a star. And, of course, she also knew that every one who was good some day went back again to Heaven.

"Oh," she cried, in a hushed voice, "has he gone back there?"

"Yes, dear," replied Nurse Evelyn gently. "Now, don't think of him any more. Here's a pretty book with pictures."

But Stella did think of him, a great deal more. The little golden-haired boy occupied her thoughts more than any one ever knew. And that night, and many other nights, when she looked upwards at the vast sky, so mysterious and serene with its millions of stars, she would wonder and ponder. And there was always one particular little star that she loved best, and when she looked upon it a sweetness would steal into her heart, and she would think of the gentle boy with the angel face, who had gone back to Heaven—for she felt quite sure that he was there amongst them, and that he could see her, and that, perhaps, he loved her.

And all to herself she called him Little Starry—and she remembered him always.

PART I

Cedric was flying his kite in a flowery meadow close to his home in Cornwall. It was a favourite spot of his, for he was a boy who loved beautiful scenery, and from there he could get a glimpse of Land's End, with its great rocks around which the waves frothed and gambolled, broke, and gurgled away.

The day was grey and windy, just the sort of day for flying a kite. This kite was of the old-fashioned sort, with a tail of his own making, and as it soared away higher and higher, with the tail wriggling its great length like a happy eel on a holiday, his heart was full of pride and content.

He kept on unwinding and unwinding the large ball of string until he began to wonder if his kite would still be in view by the time he had unwound it all. The wind was increasing in strength, when, to his astonishment, and apparently for no reason at all, the pull on his arm suddenly relaxed, and the kite all at once dropped quickly to earth, tail first. Cedric darted forward to where it lay, some distance ahead. When he reached it, he flung himself alongside to examine it carefully. He could find no rent, no damage; nothing was wrong. There was nothing, apparently, to account for such peculiar behaviour in his hitherto well-conducted kite.

As he passed his hand over it where it lay, he felt underneath it, entangled in the tail, something hard. He could see it glistening through. He quickly drew it forth, and found in his hand—a golden key.

"Halloa! what's this?" exclaimed Cedric, as he knelt down and turned his discovery over and over. "A yellow key. However did it get there?" was his next thought. He continued to ask himself the riddle, but finding no answer he gave it up, and carefully examined the key. There was no mark on it—it wouldn't even whistle when he tried it. "Some one must have lost it, I suppose," he went on, and concluded: "Well, it's no use to me!" and he threw it away. Seating himself on the grass, he soon became absorbed in getting his kite all trim again, and had temporarily secured the string to a bush, when his attention was attracted by the key, which lay and glistened as if it knew it was glistening.

Cedric didn't care to trouble with it, but instinctively he picked it up, and said—

"I wonder where this key belongs to?"

At that moment his view of the Land's End became slowly obscured by a huge iron door, the lock of which was outlined with gold. He tried the key he held. It fitted! A turn, the heavy door was unlocked, and he put the key in his pocket. He turned the handle, pushed the door open just enough to squeeze through, and it swung to behind him.

There had been a great commotion in Fairyland. The gnomes—who formed the Opposition Party—had turned disloyal and wanted a republic; whereupon the King, hurt in his dignity, insisted upon abdicating. In fact, he was tired of power, and glad of the excuse to resign. In spite of the prayers and entreaties of those who desired him to remain in office he returned to the Treasury the Golden Key, together with the crown and other royal jewels, and, to the concern of every one who wasn't a gnome, went forth to play skittles—his sole interest and only hobby.

Of all the regalia, the most precious object was the Golden Key, for whoever held it was made King of Fairyland by virtue of its possession; and it was ordained that it could only be parted with at the monarch's free will. It could be surrendered; it could not be withdrawn.

So the old King deposited it in the Treasury, leaving his people—the faithful and unfaithful alike—to fight out the matter as best they could. In so doing they fought their very best. The quarrel between the gnomes and the fairies waxed furious in their patriotic eagerness to get their own way. But while blows were exchanged and relations were otherwise strained, and the Monarchists, generally speaking, were highly annoyed, and the Republicans were even more perturbed, the latter suddenly lay low, and hatched an audacious plot. So daring was it that it made their grotesque and stunted little bodies tremble as they thought of it, and their gnarled feet shook in their shoes.

This plot involved nothing less than the theft of the Golden Key. The symbol of royalty was to be taken to the mountain top and flung far away outside the boundaries of Fairydom, and a republic proclaimed and acclaimed. A monarchy could no longer be possible.

Meanwhile the guileless fairies, recking nothing of this, and rejoicing in what they thought to be the discomfiture of their adversaries, chose the popular Crown Princess for the succession, and began with much pomp and circumstance the ceremony of investing her with the Golden Key. They had proceeded up to a certain point when, to their horror and amazement, on opening the treasure chamber to bear the symbol in solemn procession upon a velvet cushion, as the law demanded, they discovered that the Golden Key was gone!

Lay low, and hatched an audacious plot

Cedric suddenly guessed that he possessed the key to Fairyland. For he found himself in a sun-bathed valley with clouds of rainbow hues in the azure sky above. In the distance he beheld a rippling lake of golden water, on the borders of which stood a palace made of gems gathered from the circling mountains which stood as sentinels around the valley. Down these mountains meandered little golden rills that fed the lake. Nothing stirred but gaily coloured birds, which fluttered amongst the blossoming fruit trees and the rich and dainty flowers.

All around the lake, as though from nowhere, sprang crowds of fairies, gnomes, pixies, and sprites; they were landing from the tiny flower-decked craft, forming processions, hurrying in and out of the palace—presenting to Cedric's astonished gaze a scene of wonderful animation and pretty bustle. Great preparations were apparently proceeding.

After a time they gathered together in waiting crowds, which stretched a long distance on either side of the approach to the shimmering edifice, and the words came to him with curious distinctness—

"Hail! Cedric, King of Fairyland!"

"K-K-King of Fairyland!" stammered the boy in bewilderment. "Am I King of Fairyland? You're only making fun—I've only been flying my kite: I can't be a king."

"Of course your young Majesty has got the key?" remarked a funny little old man at his elbow.

"Yes," replied Cedric, starting at the suddenness of the answer to his question, but vastly surprised, and amused too, at the quaint way in which he was addressed.

"Very well, then. Of course we all know you must have found it, or you couldn't be here. I'd far rather you had it than I; experience has taught me that much. Good morning, young gentleman; may it bring you more pleasure than it brought me," and with a chuckle the little old man bowed himself away.

Cedric had no time to think, for a gorgeous equipage stopped just in front of him. The door flew open; the boy, guessing what was expected of him, quickly stepped inside, and, wondering at this grandeur, the new King of Fairyland was borne swiftly through the serried ranks of his bowing subjects to the doors of his magnificent palace. Soldiers presented arms, a national air was played on lutes and harps, and Cedric passed through the gates, followed by as many of the populace as had tickets of admission to witness the most wonderful coronation you never saw.

"Of course your young Majesty has got the key?"

PART II

In the throne-room, on a throne of diamonds, Cedric sat in royal robes, and on his head was a golden crown, which had been taken, as being about his size, from the dome of the Crown Palace. Grouped near him were the aristocracy of Fairyland—prominent among them the Crown Princess, and her great friend and neighbour, the Queen of Gossamerland, both young, both beautiful, and both unmarried.

When the ceremony was over, and the shout, "Hail! Cedric, King of Fairyland!" echoed once more, the boy, prompted by the Lord High Chamberlain, rose and bowed his delighted acknowledgments, while the crowds outside cheered for all they were worth. He kept standing, in order to receive the general homage, with the quiet confidence of one who had been used to that sort of thing every day of his life.

Little did he guess that the populace of Fairyland, who were acclaiming him, down to the tiniest sprite, were far from pleased to have a mortal on their throne—that the gnomes were plotting, with the fairies this time, to depose him, for the key had come back to their land, and was never likely to be stolen again. They had all put their heads together how to make Cedric part with it of his own free will, according to law, and they knew they had to accomplish their end by their wits, as no other means held good. It was their desire now to elect their ruler by putting the matter to the country to vote, and thus please both parties. The gnomes, who had had time to consider it, were dumbfounded at their stupidity in having thrown the key into Mortal-land, and they regretted it when it was too late.

A fair lady, wearing a tiny crown, stepped forward and curtsied low before her monarch. It was the Crown Princess. Cedric wanted to detain her; but it wasn't etiquette, and she smiled to herself as she swept past with her maids of honour. She was followed by her dark friend, who kissed Cedric's hand. Her face was more beautiful than any he had ever beheld. In obedience to his wish that she should speak to him, the little Queen of Gossamerland smiled and said—

"Sire, I have often heard of mortals, but never saw one before. It is said that some of them never dream of coming to our country, that others often do, but they never come really, you know. Your Majesty is the very first. Will you graciously tell me how it feels?"

Cedric laughed, and coughed nervously, and replied that "it felt very pleasant and comfor'ble."

She turned her head as she withdrew, and whispered anxiously—

"Do not part with the Golden Key, as you value your throne."

The words, and still more the impressive and forceful manner, of the dazzling little Queen puzzled him. He determined, nevertheless, to follow advice so fatefully given, but he couldn't help pondering over it; and his face was graver as he bowed to the lords and ladies and high-born gnomes who had the honour of introduction.

Escorted by the whole of the brilliant company, King Cedric left his palace in order formally "to do some good deed"—which was a part of the ancient ceremonial. He was to open a new institution for fairies who had lost their arts and crafts and livelihoods too. When they arrived at the building it was announced that the key which was to have been presented to him was not forthcoming. Consternation, real or assumed—(Cedric didn't believe in it)—followed on the strange declaration of those who were responsible for the carelessness. Amid profuse apologies, the Lord High Chamberlain begged the King that he would use the Golden Key—which, being a master key, could of course take the place of any other.

Acting on the advice given him, and alive to the evident importance of retaining the key (which was also the key to his position), Cedric politely and graciously refused: at which there was considerable sensation. Arguments and persuasion were in vain, but at last he yielded to the entreaties of those needy fairies who badly wanted their institution. Himself he inserted the key, which was found to fit, as was to be expected. But when he wanted to withdraw it, it had stuck, and was immovable—the lock had been carefully arranged that it should be so. Triumph and amusement were on every face except his.

"I have been betrayed," muttered Cedric, and he wondered what on Fairyland he should do next. There was silence—a breathless interval—during which the boy never relaxed hold on his treasured possession.

"Cut away the lock!" he commanded. At this order the people murmured loudly, but soon fell into silence; for they were bound by their constitution to obey their monarch. In a few moments the Golden Key was again safe in Cedric's pocket, and mistrust was in his heart, as it has been in that of nearly every king who ever reigned.

The coronation ceremony was over, and the company had dispersed, so Cedric found himself at liberty to saunter forth. He hadn't proceeded more than a few yards in the brilliant landscape when a Rabbit—renowned for his white gloves—bounded up to him and humbly begged it might be his Majesty's pleasure to receive some famous members of Animal Fairyland who were anxious to render homage. Cedric replied royally with a dignified nod, and followed the creature as it led the way to a clearing in a forest close by. Here, explained the Rabbit, the animals were allowed full liberty to say what they pleased—but beyond the boundaries they were only able to make strange noises which their own families alone could understand: it was thus that the secrets of Fairyland were kept from the world outside.

Upon a throne made from a cutting of the famous beanstalk grown for the original Jack King Cedric seated himself, and awaited events.

He hadn't long to wait, for a Fox trotted up and bade him welcome to Animal Fairyland. Wonderfully tactful for his age, Cedric told the Fox that he recognised him, having read about him in Grimm's tales, and remarked—

"You were so good, Mr. Fox, to the poor horse!"

At which the Fox sniggered shyly and withdrew. This pleasing reminiscence gave unbounded satisfaction to the various animals that had quickly gathered around.

Cedric's inquiry of the Wolf as to his digestion after that little flirtation with Red Riding Hood's grandmother was also considered prodigiously appropriate, and was greeted with cordial appreciation. His quick recognition, too, of the Three Bears added greatly to his popularity, but he wasn't so happy in his remark to a stately Swan who came up and bowed.

"You're glad to have got rid of those ducks, I s'pose?" he observed.

"And pray, sire, where did you hear about that? It's a chapter of my early history I hoped had never got about!"

"Oh, I have read all about the Ugly Duckling!" replied Cedric, persuaded that the information would fill the Swan with pride.

"Why, you don't mean to say—! Do you—do you tell me that—" screamed the Swan furiously, almost choked with indignation, and it could not finish its sentences. Then in a quieter, but still in an angry, voice, it continued: "To think of it! Why, I plumed myself on its having been kept out of print! So that family scandal has got round after all!" And in defiance of all etiquette, the swan turned tail and waddled off.

"The audience is over!" cried Cedric indignantly.

Whereupon the deputation hastily withdrew.

"Guide, sire?" inquired a gnome, suddenly presenting himself and going down on one knee. "Guide to the fairy ring?"

"Yes, please," and he followed him to where a number of peacocks stood on guard with their tails magnificently spread.

"Have you twopence?" asked the guide anxiously.

"I'm not sure," answered Cedric, fumbling in his pocket.

"If not, I'm afraid you can't be let in, sire." The gnome was looking afraid that the king might not fall, after all, into the little trap he was preparing.

"Not let me in? Can't I order myself through?"

"No 'paper' allowed! You can only be let in by paying the entrance fee."

"I never heard of a king paying twopence to go in anywhere," said Cedric, drawing himself up. He was not unreasonable, he felt, but he was a little hurt in his dignity as sovereign.

"I'm afraid your Majesty can't go against the Office of Works."

"S'pose I ordered the peacocks to be removed," said Cedric, growing hot at the undignified position of a monarch unable to produce the price of a Bath bun; "s'pose I ordered their necks to be wrung, or something?"

"It would be deplorably irregular and excessively unconstitutional."

Cedric was taken at a disadvantage by the length of the words; but a lucky discovery relieved him.

"Here, I've got four ha'pennies. But I call it mean that I, of all people, shouldn't be allowed in free."

"It's simply to show the person is well off, and to keep the place select—it's the same for all. In the case of royalty the amount is returned in cash at the end of the performance."

Cedric entered alone, and found the fairy ring far beyond anything he could have dreamed of. Thousands of little fairies, wearing cunning arrangements of petals from the fruit blossoms, had joined hands and were dancing round joyously, raising tiny clouds of yellow dust, which enveloped them as with a golden mist. As he came in sight they burst into song, and manœuvring cleverly until he was in their midst, they showed what they could do in grace of movement and harmony of sound, till, quite enchanted, he felt he could remain there for ever.

"Go on! go on!" he shouted, clapping his hands with delight, for the little crew had come to a standstill.

A pixie detached himself, and kneeling, begged his Majesty to give him the Golden Key.

"What for?" asked Cedric, surprised.

"To wind up the proceedings," came the reply of the fairies, who had eagerly drawn near.

"Can't," said Cedric.

"Do!" said the prettiest of the fairies in chorus.

Hardly knowing what he was about, so much did he want to see the entrancing dance all over again, he held out the key to the applicant; but, noticing a peculiar gleam dart from the pixie's eyes, he quickly snatched it back again and replaced it in his pocket, and coming to himself found that the peacocks were once more between him and the fairy ring; that twopence was in his hand, and there was no one at all about. Then he realised how narrow his escape had been. "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." Cedric knew that Shakespeare had written that; but he had never expected to learn the truth of it from experience.

He lay on the grass, and pondered what he had better do in the trying political situation. "What's the use of being King of Fairyland if I have to be plotted against every hour of the day?" muttered Cedric disconsolately.

"No use at all."

They were the soft tones of the little Queen of Gossamerland. She sat down next to him and put her tiny hand on his arm.

"What's to be done, then?"

"It's very simple," she rejoined. "Give me the Golden Key. You'll be king no longer, but you'll have no responsibilities or anxieties."

"That won't be much fun for me," replied Cedric. "Besides, what will you do with it?"

"The right thing. I'll give it to the Crown Princess, the rightful heir. That will save the country a general election, and fairy tranquillity will reign once more."

"Why did you warn me not to part with it? And now you ask me for it!"

"I wanted to get it myself as soon as you would give it up, so that I might deliver it to my dear friend, who will become a queen like me. Then she can choose her husband; and, after being her bridesmaid, I suppose I shall be married too."

"Will you marry me?" asked Cedric bluntly.

"Why, you'd have to live on honey!" replied the Gossamer Queen, with a smile, half sweet, half malicious. Cedric turned it over in his mind, but not for long.

"Give me the key," she begged coaxingly.

"Yes—but," argued the boy, "it's worth a lot, you know: I wouldn't so much mind swopping it; but——"

The Queen of Gossamerland, tired of wasting time, put out her hand so prettily, and pursed up her lips so sweetly and daintily, that he did give her the Golden Key, and she gave a kiss as a receipt. Then she said that the Office of Works would send for the crown, and flitted away.

Cedric prepared to remove his crown, with a sigh to think he had no longer any right to it, but first he ran to the stream that slowly floated by, and took a good look at himself. He smiled with pride. "I must say," he remarked confidentially to himself, "I really do look every inch a king! But, after all, I couldn't go to school with this on—the fellows would be sure to notice it." He started at the bare idea, and laid down the crown with a feeling of "good riddance" as profound and grateful as ever King James II. could have experienced. He felt no other pang than that of dignity too quickly swept away.

He placed it on the grass, confident that the Gossamer Queen would send for it at once, and he began to think of his own return. "Now to find that door!" he exclaimed, and looked about him to ask the way. The golden lake, the glittering palace, the sentry of mountains—all were there; but no living being was in sight.

"Queer place, I call it," said Cedric to himself. "No cake shops, only honey, and no policemen to tell the way." He wandered on in the hope of coming sooner or later, somehow and somewhere, to the door.

After a time he met the funny little old man who had accosted him on his arrival. He was gazing hard at the boy, looking right through him as though he were not there.

"Will you kindly show me the door?" said Cedric eagerly.

"Turn you out, do you mean?" asked ex-King the First.

"I want to turn myself out, if I can," replied Cedric.

"Already? Good morning, young gentleman, ex-King the Second. There's a pair of us."

"Please show me the door."

"When is a door not a-jar?" asked the out-o'-work sovereign.

"Don't ask me riddles. Show me the door!" ordered Cedric in his best royal-command manner, and looked so threatening that the little old man quickly pointed over his shoulder.

Cedric walked off in that direction without a word, and to his joy he discovered the door just a little way in front of him.

"Thank goodness!" he exclaimed, as he ran up to it—and then he suddenly realised that he no longer possessed the Golden Key with which to open it. How was he to escape? He turned and looked back at what now was an immeasurable distance—so very far away did it seem—and there was once more bustling activity about the palace. Another Coronation ceremony was beginning all over again.