“I’d like to read some of them,” said Wade.  “I’m awfully fond of fairy stories.”  “Oh, but these are very young fairy stories, like—­like this one.”  Eve pulled a pencilled sheet of paper from the pages of her book, smiled, hesitated, and read:  “’Once upon a time there was a Fairy Princess whose name was Dewdrop.  She lived in a beautiful Blue Palace deep in the heart of a Canterbury Bell that swayed to and fro, to and fro, at the top of the garden wall.  And when the sun shone against the walls of her palace it was filled with a lovely lavender light, and when the moon shone it was all asparkle with silver.  It was quite the most desirable palace in the whole garden, for it was the only one that had a view over the great high wall, and many fairies envied her because she lived in it.  One of those who wanted the Blue Palace for himself was a very wicked fairy who lived under a toadstool nearby.  He was so terribly wicked that I don’t like to even tell you about him.  He never got up to breakfast when he was called, he never did as he was told, and he used to sit for hours on top of his toadstool, putting out his tongue at all the other fairies who flew by.  And he did lots and lots of other things, too, that only a thoroughly depraved fairy could ever think of, like putting cockleburs in the nests where the baby birds lived, and making them very uncomfortable, and chasing the moles about underground, and making a squeaking noise like a hungry weasel, and scaring the poor little moles almost to death.  Oh, I could tell you lots of dreadful things about the wicked fairy if I wanted to.  His name was Nettlesting, and his father and mother were both dead, and he lived all alone with his grandmother, who simply spoiled him!  And—­’and that’s all there is.  How do you like it?”

“Bully,” said Wade.  “What’s the rest of it?”

“I don’t know.  That’s as far as I’ve got.  I suppose, though, that the wicked fairy tried to oust the Princess from the Blue Palace, and there were perfectly scandalous doings in Fairyland.”

“I hope you’ll finish it,” said Wade.  “I rather like Nettlesting.”

“Oh, but you mustn’t!  The moral is that fairies who don’t get up to breakfast when they’re called always come to some bad end.  You must like the Princess and think the wicked fairy quite detestable.”

“Can’t help it,” Wade replied, apologetically.  “The wicked fairy had a sense of humor and I like him.  That chasing the moles around and squeaking like a weasel appeals to me.  I’ll bet that’s just what I’d do if I were a fairy!”

“I know,” said Eve, nodding her head sympathetically.  “I’m ashamed to say it, but I always like the wicked fairies, too.  It’s dreadfully hard sometimes for me to give them their deserts.  I’m afraid I don’t make them mean enough.  What is your idea of a thoroughly depraved fairy, Mr. Herrick?”

Wade frowned a moment, thinking deeply.

“Well,” he said finally, “you might have him go around and upset the bird-nests and spill the little birds out.  How would that do?”