world in an uncanny uniform,
ghastly in line and hue.

Charlotte was sadly out of spirits. Having "countered" Miss Smedley at
breakfast, during some argument or other, by an apt quotation from
her favourite classic (the Fairy Book) she had been gently but firmly
informed that no such things as fairies ever really existed. "Do you
mean to say it's all lies?" asked Charlotte, bluntly. Miss Smedley
deprecated the use of any such unladylike words in any connection at
all. "These stories had their origin, my dear," she explained, "in a
mistaken anthropomorphism in the interpretation of nature. But though we
are now too well informed to fall into similar errors, there are still
many beautiful lessons to be learned from these myths--"

"But how can you learn anything," persisted Charlotte, "from what
doesn't exist?" And she left the table defiant, howbeit depressed.

"Don't you mind HER," I said, consolingly; "how can she know anything
about it? Why, she can't even throw a stone properly!"

"Edward says they're all rot, too," replied Charlotte, doubtfully.

"Edward says everything's rot," I explained, "now he thinks he's going
into the Army. If a thing's in a book it MUST be true, so that settles
it!"

Charlotte looked almost reassured. The room was quieter now, for Edward
had got the dragon down and was boring holes in him with a purring
sound Harold was ascending the steps of the Athenaeum with a jaunty
air--suggestive rather of the Junior Carlton. Outside, the tall
elm-tops were hardly to be seen through the feathery storm. "The sky's
a-falling," quoted Charlotte, softly; "I must go and tell the king."
The quotation suggested a fairy story, and I offered to read to
her, reaching out for the book. But the Wee Folk were under a cloud;
sceptical hints had embittered the chalice. So I was fain to fetch
Arthur--second favourite with Charlotte for his dames riding errant, and
an easy first with us boys for his spear-splintering crash of tourney
and hurtle against hopeless odds. Here again, however, I proved
unfortunate,--what ill-luck made the book open at the sorrowful history
of Balin and Balan? "And he vanished anon," I read: "and so he heard
an horne blow, as it had been the death of a beast. 'That blast,' said
Balin, 'is blowen for me, for I am the prize, and yet am I not dead.'"
Charlotte began to cry: she knew the rest too well. I shut the book in
despair. Harold emerged from behind the arm-chair. He was sucking his