away,' said Mary solemnly; 'I shouldn't really. I don't want to run away.'

'That's right.'

'Only where is it?' asked Mary.

'Now don't you think it's a very nice place?'

'Oh, very nice!' cried Mary. 'I know what it is,' she added; 'it's all a dream! Only I hope I'm not going to wake again.'

'What nonsense you're talking,' was the answer. 'Of course you are awake, dear.'

'Why do you call me dear?' asked Mary.

'Because I'm very fond of you.'

'But why are you fond of me?' asked Mary. You will notice she rather liked to ask questions when she got the chance, but they had been very seldom answered until now.

'Well, now I wonder why!' was the answer. 'Let me see! Haven't I made you comfortable and given you nice beef-tea and jelly?'

'I like them very much,' said Mary.

'Well, then, I daresay that's why I like you. Because we generally like persons if we do kind things for them.'

'I see,' said Mary, but she didn't understand at all. 'But I'm sure it's a dream,' she added, 'and I do hope I shan't wake!'

'Oh dear!' was the answer. 'Now, do you know what I do to prove little girls are awake?'

'No,' said Mary, opening her eyes widely.

'Do you know what pinching is?'

'Oh yes,' said Mary, for Mrs. Coppert was very fond of pinching.

'Well, when I want to prove a little girl is awake, I pinch her.'

'But I know I'm not,' said Mary. 'I can't be. It's all part of the dream—your telling me that.'

Mary began to spoil her dream by looking forward to the time when she must awake to find herself upon the floor at the house in William Street, with her ragged dress waiting to be worn again. Still, it was the most real dream she had ever had, and it certainly seemed to be a very long one.

But when another week had passed, Mary began to see it was not really a dream after all. Everything was just as nice as ever, or even nicer; she had the most delicious things to eat and drink: chicken and toast, and all sorts of nice puddings, boiled custard, jelly, and grapes and oranges. She was able to sit up in bed to eat them too, and she wore a blue dressing-gown, and the lady with the kind, dark eyes read delightful stories. Now, this was something quite new to Mary Brown, and the stories seemed almost as wonderful as the change in her own little life.

She only knew of the things she had seen or heard at William Street—not nice things at all. She had imagined all the world must be like that, for although she was very young, Mary had often thought about things. Still, she had never thought of anything half so wonderful as Jack-and-the-Beanstalk, or Ali Baba, or Aladdin, or Cinderella. Mary grew quite to love Cinderella, and I can't tell you how many times she heard the story of the glass slipper.

'I know how I came here now!' she exclaimed one afternoon.

'Do you indeed?' was the answer. 'Then, perhaps, you will tell me!'

'I'm like Cinderella,' said Mary. 'Cinderella was very miserable, and I was very miserable. Then her fairy-godmother came to make her happy; she gave her all kinds of pretty dresses and things—the fairy-godmother did—and some one has given me all kinds of nice things, and taken me away from William Street and brought me here; so, of course, I know it must be my fairy-godmother too.' Then Mary was silent for a little while. 'Are you my fairy-godmother?' she asked.

'No,' was the answer. 'I am not nearly important enough to be anybody's fairy-godmother.'

'Who are you?' asked Mary.

'Well, I am Sister Agatha.'

'Oh, then it wasn't you who brought me here!' said Mary, looking a little disappointed.

'I wasn't sent for until afterwards,' answered Sister Agatha.

'Who sent for you?' asked Mary.

'The person who brought you here.'

'But who was that?' cried Mary excitedly. 'Please do tell me whether it was a fairy! I'm sure it was, because it couldn't be any one else, you see.'

'Then that settles the question,' said Sister Agatha, with a smile, and Mary thought it did.

'Where is she?' she asked.

'A long, long way off! She had to go away the day after you came, so she asked me to take care of you till she saw you again. But she won't be long now.'

'Is she very beautiful like the fairies you've read to me about?' asked Mary.

'I don't suppose there ever was anybody so beautiful,' answered Sister Agatha.

'And has she got wings like this?' asked Mary, opening a book that lay on the bed and pointing to one of its coloured pictures.

'I shouldn't wonder,' said Sister Agatha; 'only she doesn't show them every day, because it isn't the fashion to wear wings, you know.'

'I think that's a pity,' answered Mary; and from that day she thought of scarcely anything else but how she had been brought away from William Street by her fairy-godmother, just like Cinderella.

Of course, Mary Brown had never imagined that she had a fairy-godmother—who could imagine such a thing in William Street! But then Cinderella had never imagined that she had a fairy-godmother either, until the night of the grand ball.

One day Sister Agatha told Mary she might get out of bed; she was carefully wrapped in a dressing-gown and a blanket and carried to a comfortable arm-chair. On her left foot she wore a pink woollen shoe, but the other foot looked so clumsy in its great bandages, that Sister Agatha covered it over.

'I wish you would untie it,' said Mary; 'I really won't run away. I shan't run away, because I want to see my fairy-godmother so much.'

'Well,' answered Sister Agatha, 'you will see her very soon now; for she is coming to-morrow.'

II

MARY SEES HER FAIRY-GODMOTHER

Mary Brown did not go to sleep very early that night, and as soon as she awoke the next morning, she began to ask questions. She wanted Sister Agatha to tell her at what time her fairy-godmother would come, and where she was coming from, and what she would be most likely to do when she arrived.

'And what is her name?' she cried.

'Her name is Evangeline Royal,' said Sister Agatha, 'and a very pretty name too.'

'I suppose she doesn't live anywhere?' said Mary.

'Not live anywhere!' cried Sister Agatha. 'Of course she lives somewhere. She lives here.'

'I thought fairies never seemed to live anywhere,' said Mary; 'and it does seem strange she should come to William Street.'

'Ah! well, perhaps, she was looking for you.'

'I should think she's everywhere at once,' said Mary.

'Dear me!' exclaimed Sister Agatha, 'what a funny child you are! Just now, you said she didn't live anywhere.'

'That's what I mean,' answered Mary; 'because if she's everywhere at once, how can she live anywhere, you know?'

Whilst Sister Agatha washed her and put on her dressing-gown, whilst the doctor was there, whilst she drank her beef-tea for luncheon and ate her chicken for dinner, Mary Brown thought of nothing but Evangeline Royal, wondering what she would look like, what she would say, and all the rest of it. And when she went to bed again after dinner as usual and fell asleep, she dreamed of Evangeline Royal still.

But it was a dreadful dream. She dreamed that her fairy-godmother came, and that she wore a veil, and that when she lifted it her face was large and red and shiny just like Mrs. Coppert's. Mary could not forget the dream, even when she was wrapped in the blanket again and sitting in the arm-chair. But she waited with her wondering eyes on the door, watching half afraid for Evangeline.

It had struck four when Sister Agatha went away, leaving Mary alone. She sat very still, staring at the door until presently it opened again, and Mary thought that now she should see Evangeline Royal at last. But it was only Sister Agatha who entered the room.

'She has come!' cried Sister Agatha. 'It won't be long before you see her now. As soon as she has taken off her hat.'

'Does