Come with me then to Ambrosia’s God-daughter, whom they visited last, and whose Fairy gift the other Fairies were to guess at!

Neither you nor I, my dears, ever heard a fairy-laugh.  Doubtless it is a sweet and musical sound.  You can perhaps fancy it?  Well then, do fancy it, and how it rang in silver peals when our fairy friends, on entering the last nursery they had to visit, found Ambrosia’s protegee in a flood of angry tears, stamping her foot on the ground in a passion!  “You naughty naughty girl!” exclaimed the old Nurse, “you’ll wake the baby and make your own eyes so red you won’t be fit to be seen to night by the company!”

“I don’t care about my eyes being red, tho’ I don’t want to wake the poor baby,” sobbed the little girl, slightly softening her wrath:  “but the cat has unravelled all the stocking I have been knitting at for so many days, and I had nearly just finished it, and now it’s all spoilt;” and she roared with vexation.  “Miss Hermione, if you go on so I shall certainly send for your Mamma, and the baby will be quite poorly, he will! and we shall know who made him so,” added Nurse triumphantly.  “I can’t make the baby poorly with crying, Nurse, so that’s nonsense you know,” observed Hermione; “but I didn’t mean to disturb him; only my stocking is gone, and I don’t know what to do.”  And here she sobbed afresh.

“Do! why ain’t you going down to the ladies, and can’t you be brushing your hair and washing your face and getting ready?” “But it isn’t time.”  “Well, but can’t you get ready before the time a little? and then, when you’re dressed and look so clean and nice and pretty, you can sit in the chair and we can look at you!” and here the good old Nurse gave a knowing smile and nodded her head.

Hermione caught sight of the comical coaxing glance, and, in spite of her misfortune, burst into a fit of laughter.  “Hum, hum, hum! now you’ll wake the poor thing by laughing, Miss Hermione.  I do wish you’d be quiet:”  and here the Nurse rocked the child on her knee more vigorously than ever.

“Then why don’t you tell me what I am to do with my stocking,” cried Hermione.  “Oh well, I know what I will do—­something quite as quiet as a mouse.  I will wind up my poor worsted.”  Hereupon the little girl picked up the puckered remains of her luckless grey stocking which a facetious young cat had spent at least a quarter of an hour in ingeniously unravelling with his claws.  It was a tiresome tedious job we must admit, and required a strong effort of patient perseverance, but Hermione soon became engrossed in its difficulties and a dead silence ensued.  At last Nurse who had while rocking the sleeping baby on her knee, been watching the child’s proceedings, suddenly exclaimed, “Well to be sure, Miss Hermione, you have such patience as I never before did see.”

[The Fairies exchanged glances.

“It is Patience, Ambrosia.”

“What a hurry you are in!” was the reply.]