That announcement alone would have drawn a large crowd, but added to that was the fact that twenty families in the Valley had each contributed a child to the fairy chorus or the group of flower messengers, and were thus personally interested in the success of the entertainment.

There was scarcely standing-room when the doors were opened Friday evening.  Papa Jack felt well repaid for his part in the hurried preparations when, after the musical part of the programme, he heard the buzz of admiration that went around the room, as the curtain rose on the first scene of the play.  It was the dimly lighted witch’s orchard.

Across the stage, five feet back from the footlights, ran a snaky-looking fence with high-spiked posts.  It had taken him all morning to build it, even with Alec’s and Walker’s help.  Above this peered a thicket of small trees and underbrush bearing a marvellous crop of gold and silver apples and plums.  Real gold and silver fruit it looked to be in the dim light, and not the discarded ornaments of a score of old Christmas-trees.  A stuffed owl kept guard on one high gate-post, and a huge black velvet cat on the other.

In the centre of the stage, showing plainly through the open double gates, the witch’s caldron hung on a tripod, over a fire of fagots.  Here Kitty, dressed like an old hag, leaned on her blackened broomstick, stirring the brew, and muttering to herself.

At one side of the stage could be seen the door leading into the ogre’s tower, and above it a tiny casement window.

Mrs. Walton gave a nod of satisfaction over her work, when the ogre came roaring in.  His costume was of her making, even to the bludgeon which he carried.  “Nobody could guess that it was only an old Indian club painted red to hide the lumps of sealing-wax I had to stick on to make the regulation knots,” she whispered to Keith’s father, who sat next her.  “And no one would ever dream that the ogre is Joe Clark.  I had hard work to persuade him to take the part, but an invitation to my camping party next week proved to be effective bait.  And such a time as I had to get Ranald’s costume!  I was about to ask Betty to change his name, when Elise found that Mardi Gras frog at some costumer’s.  Those webbed feet and hideous eyes are enough to strike terror to any one’s soul.”

It was a play in which every one was pleased with the part given him.  Allison and Rob swept up and down in their gilt crowns and ermine-trimmed robes of royal purple, feeling that as king and queen they had the most important parts of all.  Keith looked every inch the charming Prince Hero he personated, and Malcolm made such a dashing knight that there was a burst of applause every time he appeared.

Betty made a dear old godmother, and Elise, with crown and star-tipped wand, filmy spangled wings, and big red bubble of a balloon, was supremely happy as Queen of the Fairies.  But it was the Little Colonel who won the greatest laurels, in the tower room, making the prettiest picture of all as she bent over the great St. Bernard, bewailing their fate.