astic little dance Sara had ever seen. Presently they
stopped before Sara.

"Now for the waffles, Sara," said Pirlaps; and Avrillia stooped and
kissed her and said, "Come, Sara, and see what I can cook!"

Sara thought the notion of Avrillia's cooking must be an odd and
pretty fancy, but she skipped back with them to their little house,
holding a hand of each. Through the windows she could see the fairy
lights gleaming, for it was growing late and cold. They led her again
down into the little shining, warm kitchen, where the lights from the
glowing stove danced upon the silver bowls, and the air was full of
delicious, spicy smells.

"Lie down, Yassuh, and go to sleep," cried Avrillia; and so saying she
took down her kitchen-apron from the gold-headed pin where it hung and
began to flit about the cook-table--measuring out snow-sugar and
breaking butterfly eggs into her shining cups and bowls. Then she got
out the silver waffle-irons (Sara wanted them for her toy stove) and
buttered them, and put them on the stove to heat while she beat up the
batter.

Meantime, Sara helped Pirlaps to set a dainty little round table (not
at all like a multiplication table) with pink shell dishes, and put on
a jar of honeysuckle honey and a pat of buttercup butter. Then
Avrillia baked the waffles and they sat down to eat.

Avrillia had hardly taken the first mouthful when she cried, "I forgot
the children!" and sprang up and flitted to the door.

As she opened the door Sara heard faint little cries and tinkling
laughter, drifting back from the hill where the children still played
and frolicked in the snow. Presently Avrillia shut the door and came
back to her place at the table.

"Bless their hearts!" she said, smiling, "I think I'll just let them
stay out and play all night--they're always begging me to let them.
And they're having such a good time I can't bear to vanish them. They
won't bother us," she added, daintily pouring honeysuckle syrup on her
waffle.

The waffles were so tiny and delicious that, every time she had
swallowed one, Sara almost thought she had dreamed it.

"I didn't know you could cook, Avrillia," she said, shyly and
admiringly.

Avrillia looked pleased. "Oh, anybody can cook!" she said, lightly.
Sara understood from her tone that not everybody could write poems on
rose-leaves.

"We do this every year, Sara," said Pirlaps, "the first time it snows.
It's our favorite philanthropy. It's a big undertaking,