descended in a cascade on the other at exactly the same angle as the
black locks of the young arguer before him, and as they calmly regarded
each other I thought I had never seen such a likeness in personality as
well as form of feature. Love flooded all over me and I wanted to hug
them both but was restrained to silence by the gravity of the
situation.

"And why did you argue that there are fairies?" father interrogated
calmly and judicially.

"Charlotte said they ain't here 'cause she and me had never saw one, and
I said, 'How could a book and pictures be about nothing at all?' I
showed her this book that Lady gaved me and she said, 'Maybe, but ask
Minister.' I said, no, I'd ask you 'cause you are older and mighter saw
one onct. Did you?"

"Well, sir, you argued from a positive, about ten pounds of positive, I
should judge from the size of that volume, while Charlotte certainly
argued from a negative viewpoint," said father, and his eyes twinkled as
he gave me an almost imperceptible wink. By his answer he also avoided
answering the question of faith put to him.

"Did you see one?" came back the question in a tone that demanded an
answer.

"Here comes Minister now and you can ask him," father said in all
cravenness as Mr. Goodloe came in the door behind me and came and stood
at my side. He had a huge yellow plume of goldenrod which he handed me
without looking at me directly. I buried my nose in its crispness and
watched to see him meet the issue.

The boy put the question carefully just as he had put it to father, but
there was a quaver in his voice as he ended with his plea.

"Is they no fairies, 'cause you can't see 'em?"

"Do you feel them in your heart?" was the counter question that came
gravely from the lips of the Reverend Mr. Goodloe.

"Yes, here," answered the pleader as he laid his hand carefully on the
pit of his stomach, which is nearer the seat of heartache than many a
perturbed older person has come.

"Then for you there are fairies, right there in your heart, even if
Charlotte has lost them out of hers," was the answer, with a theology
that staggered me and set father smiling back into his youth.

"I'll go tell her and maybe give her some of mine," exclaimed the boy as
he ran from the room.

CHAPTER XX

THE COVERT OF WINGS

"Oh, the faith of youth, the faith that reaches out to give itself,"
sighed father as he turned to his papers.

"Can faith give itself?" I asked, as I ra