til the idea struck
her that a writer whose book seemed to indicate a sympathetic nature
would not object to the trouble of removing the childish fears he had
aroused, and she said: 'Listen, Dolly; suppose you write a letter to
Mr. Ernstone--at his publishers', you know--I'll show you how to
address it, but you must write the rest yourself, and ask him to tell
you if the sugar prince was really a fairy, and then you will know all
about it; but my own belief is, Dolly, that there aren't any
fairies--now, at any rate.'

'If there weren't,' argued Dolly, 'people wouldn't write books about
them. I've seen pictures of them lots of times.'

'And they dance in rows at the pantomime, don't they, Dolly?' said
Mabel.

'Oh, I know _those_ aren't fairies--only thin little girls,' said
Dolly contemptuously. 'I'm not a baby, Mabel, but I _would_ write to
Mr.--what you said just now--only I hate letter-writing so--ink is
such blotty, messy stuff--and I daresay he wouldn't answer after all.'

'Try him, dear,' said Mabel.

Dolly looked obstinate and said nothing just then, and Mabel did not
think it well to refer to the matter again. But the next week, from
certain little affectations of tremendous mystery on Dolly's part, and
the absence of the library copy of 'Illusion' from the morning-room
during one whole afternoon, after which it reappeared in a state of
preternatural inkiness, Mabel had a suspicion that her suggestion was
not so disregarded as it had seemed.

And a few days afterwards Mark found on his breakfast table an
envelope from his publisher, which proved to contain a letter directed
to 'Mr. Ciril Ernstone,' at the office. The letter was written in a
round childish hand, with scrapings here and there to record the fall
of a vanquished blot.

'Dear Mr. Ciril Ernstone,' it ran, 'I want you to tell me
how you knew that I ate that sugar prince in your story,
and if you meant me really. Perhaps you made that part of
it up, or else it was some other girl, but please write
and tell me who it was and all about it, because I do so
hate to think I've eaten up a real fairy without knowing
it.--DOROTHY MARGARET LANGTON.'

This poor little letter made Mark very angry; if he had written the
story he would, of course, have been amused if not pleased by the
naive testimony to his power; but, as it was, it annoyed him to a
quite unreasonable extent.

He threw Dolly's note pettishly across the table; 'I wis