beautiful dresses!

'They're not for me!' she exclaimed, looking up into Evangeline's face.

'You are to choose the three you like the best,' was the answer.

It took a very long time for Mary to choose. She had them all taken out of the box one after another, and the woman held them up so that Mary could see them better. At last she made her selection: a dark blue dress, a crimson dress, and one of a deep plum colour. Then, although Mary did not know there could be anything else in this wonderful box, a great many other things were taken out of it, such as stockings and shoes and a very nice outdoor jacket. Mary felt delighted with everything, but especially with the outdoor jacket, because it showed that she was to go out again some day.

'I shall go out again!' she cried, as the woman strapped up the box. 'But I shan't go to William Street!' she pleaded, looking up into Evangeline's face.

'William Street!' answered Sister Agatha, 'certainly not. Who wants to go to William Street, indeed. You will go to the loveliest place in the world. You are going to stay in the country.'

'What is the country?' asked Mary, for she had never been a mile away from William Street in her life.

'Now,' cried Evangeline, when the woman with the box had gone away, 'is there anything else you would like to have?'

'I—I don't think so,' answered Mary.

'How about toys?' suggested Sister Agatha.

'Oh yes, I should like some toys,' answered Mary.

'Then,' said Evangeline, as Sister Agatha leaned back near the bell-handle, 'let us have some toys!' and as she spoke she raised her hands above her head and clapped them together.

She had scarcely clapped her hands when the door opened again and a little old man entered the room with a square box which looked far too heavy for him. He had a tiny face, all over lines, and he wore a long coat that reached to his boots. He bowed low to Evangeline, just as Mary expected him to do, and then he went down on his knees to open the box.

By this time Mary naturally thought she should see curious things, because she had no doubt whatever that she was in fairy-land, where all sorts of curious things are always happening, as every one knows. But even if Mary had not known she was in fairy-land before, she would have become quite sure of it now.

You see, everything was so different from what she had seen and heard at William Street. She had such different things to eat. She had actually had three new dresses given to her at one time! And then Evangeline seemed very, very different from Mrs. Coppert, and very, very much nicer.

But if Mary had not already felt sure she was in fairy-land, she could not have thought she was anywhere else when the funny old man began to take those wonderful things out of his box.

Mary had once picked up a broken doll in William Street, and she had grown very fond of it. She had taken it about with her, and sat it in the gutter, with its back against the kerb, while she played in the mud. She used to have long talks with it, but then she had to make the answers herself, and only to pretend the dolly made them. For, of course, Mary knew well enough that dolls can't speak—at least they can't speak in the world she had come from.

But in the world she lived in now it seemed quite different, and Mary knew why that was. It was because there were magic counters in this world and none in the world of William Street. She was beginning to expect everything to be wonderful, but certainly she had not expected to see a doll that spoke. But the funny old man took a doll out of his box that spoke quite distinctly—far more distinctly than little Sally Murphy. It was true the doll could not say many words at present, but as it had once begun to talk, Mary had no doubt that with a little practice it would soon learn to say more, just as Sally had done. Already it said 'Papa' and 'Mama' very nicely.

Mary could not decide which was the more wonderful—a doll that could talk or a doll that could walk! This doll could walk quite a long way, for the old man took it to the farthest corner of the room, placed it on the floor, stooped over it as if he were telling it what to do, then when he took his hand away and stood upright, there, to Mary's astonishment, was the odd little doll moving its legs in the most comical manner and walking across the room entirely without help. There was a kitten that meowed and ran; there was a house with nice bright red walls and doors and windows, and with beds already made in the rooms, for the dolls to live in; and there were ever so many more things for Mary to choose from, and she chose a good many.

When the man had gone away she lay back in her chair with a flushed face, and Sister Agatha sent Evangeline away. But after Mary had been asleep that afternoon, Evangeline came to see her again.

'Well,' she asked, 'and how do you like all your new things?'

'Very much indeed,' answered Mary; 'I think they're lovely.'

'Ah! well, I am glad you are not like the discontented boy,' said Evangeline.

'Is that a story?' exclaimed Mary. 'Do tell it to me, please!' So Evangeline sat down to tell her the story.

IV

THE STORY OF THE DISCONTENTED BOY AND THE MAGICIAN

A long, long time ago, in a country a great way off, there lived a man who was the King's Grand Vizier. Now the Vizier had a son, who was ten years old, and he caused his father a great deal of unhappiness. For he was a very greedy boy, and he grumbled at everything he had.

As long as anything belonged to some one else he liked it very much, and he cried and made a loud noise until it was given to him. But as soon as it became his own Hassan began to find fault with it. It was just the same with little things or big things—as soon as they were put into his own hands he ceased to care for them.

If he sat at dinner and he had tasted every dish but one, he would ask for that, and say he liked it better than anything else; but when it was put on his plate, he would push it away. 'This is horrid!' he would cry. 'I don't want it. Take it away.' And he would throw it on to the floor, plate and all.

Now, as you may suppose, this conduct vexed the Vizier, and presently things came to such a pass that he could think of nothing but his tiresome son. One day he was summoned to the King's presence.

'The affairs of the kingdom are being neglected,' said the King; 'the people are not paying their taxes, yet nobody's head is cut off. This kind of thing cannot be allowed to go on. If I do not see an improvement very soon I shall cast you into prison.'

The Vizier had a great dread of the prison, for he had sent many persons there and he knew exactly what it was like. So he fell on his knees before the King and confessed that Hassan was the real cause of the neglect.

'Very well,' answered the King, 'I shall not be so unjust as to punish you for your son's offence, but if he does not become satisfied within a month from to-day, I shall condemn him to death. But as you have served me faithfully so many years, I shall allow you the privilege of choosing whether his head shall be cut off with an axe or a sword.'

The Vizier thanked the King for granting him this privilege and returned to his own palace; he knew it was useless to speak to Hassan because he had spoken to him so often before, so he sent for a Magician who lived a few miles away. When the Magician heard of the Vizier's distress, he at once promised to help him.

'I believe I can cure your son,' he said, as soon as he entered the palace, 'and I do not think it will take so long as a month.'

'I should like the cure to be perfect,' answered the Vizier, 'and then I shall be able to attend properly to the King's business again.'

'There is only one condition,' said the Magician. 'Hassan must come with me wherever I choose to take him.'

'That is impossible!' cried the Vizier; 'as long as I