it for us outside, Hodson," said Marjorie rather peremptorily.

"I'll go into the post office," she agreed unwillingly. "You won't be
long, will you, miss?"

The passage inside the inn was dark, and the stairs were steep, and a
smell of stale beer pervaded the air. It seemed a strange place for such
a lovely flower as Eric to be growing. Lizzie went first to show the
way. She stopped with her hand on the latch of the door.

"His ma's had to go and serve in the bar," she explained, "but his
aunt's just come and is sitting with him."

Dona and Marjorie entered a small low bedroom, clean enough, though
rather faded and shabby. In a cot bed by the window lay Eric, white as
his pillow, a frail ethereal being all dark eyes and shining golden
curls. He stretched out two feeble little arms in welcome.

"Oh, my fairy ladies! Have you really come?" he cried eagerly.

It was only when they had both flown to him and kissed him that the
girls had time to notice the figure that sat by his bedside--a figure
that, with red spots of consternation on its cheeks, rose hastily from
its seat.

"Miss Norton!" they gasped, both together.

The mistress recovered herself with an effort.

"Sit down, Dona and Marjorie," she said with apparent calm, placing two
chairs for them. "I did not know you were Eric's fairy ladies. It is
very kind of you to come and see him."

"This is Titania," said the little fellow proudly, snuggling his hand
into his aunt's. "She knows more fairy tales than there are in all the
books. You never heard such lovely tales as she can tell. Another,
please, Titania!"

"Not now, darling."

"Please, please! The one about the moon maiden and the stars."

The dark eyes were pleading, and the small mouth quivered. The child
looked too ill to be reasoned with.

"Don't mind us," blurted out Marjorie, with a catch in her voice. Dona
was blinking some tear-drops out of her eyes.

Then a wonderful thing happened, for Miss Norton, beforetime the cold,
self-contained, strict house mistress, dropped her mask of reserve, and,
throwing a tender arm round Eric, began a tale of elves and fairies. She
told it well, too, with a pretty play of fancy, and an understanding of
a child's mind. He listened with supreme satisfaction.

"Isn't it lovely?" he said, turning in triumph to the girls when the
story was finished.

"We must trot now, darling," said his aunt, laying him gently back on
the pillow. "What? More presents? You