Driving behind old Slow Coach and floating on the lake in the Flyaway were some of the delights, and when more visitors came, and two charming young cousins of Aunt Rachel made the house resound with melody, Phil thought his happiness complete.  But a new surprise was in store for him when, after repeated consultations and measurements and whisperings, a huge parcel was brought to his room, and Aunt Rachel and Lisa took off the wrappings.  Neither of them looked particularly joyful as a pair of stout crutches made their appearance, but their faces changed wonderfully when Phil gave a cry of glee, and said, hilariously, “Now I can walk! now I can walk!”

He was eager to use his new helps, but it took a longer time than he had imagined to get accustomed to them, and it was many weeks before he could go down the garden paths (followed by Nep with much gravity, as if Phil were in his especial care) with desirable ease.

Coming in from one of these rather tiresome attempts one warm morning, and hearing music and voices in the parlor, Phil strayed into the dining-room, which was darkened and cool, and fragrant with fresh flowers.  He lay down on a lounge, with his crutches beside him, and was listening to the pretty waltz being played in the other room, when he thought he saw a tiny creature light upon one of his crutches.  Supposing it, however, to be a butterfly, he watched it in a sleepy, dreamy fashion, until it approached more nearly, and these words startled him: 

“You do not know me?” said a tiny voice, rather reproachfully.

“What! is it you, my dear little wind fairy?” he asked.  “I never dreamed that I should see you again.  How did you get here?”

“Blown here, to be sure, as I always am, only I have to pilot myself, or what would be the use of having wings?  I came on some thistle-down this time, for I wanted to have another peep at you, and I have had hard work to follow you in here, I assure you; but the vibrations of that lovely music helped me, and here I am.  Do not talk—­let me do it all.  I never have much time, you know, and I want to thank you for your goodness in taking my advice, and helping some of my little sick friends.  You do not begin to know what good you have done—­nobody does; but doing good is very like the big snowballs that children make in winter—­a little ball at first, but as they roll, it grows bigger and bigger, almost of itself, until it is more than one can manage.  So it has been with your kind action:  many have imitated it, and flowers come now to the hospitals by the bushel.  Not only children, but grown people, sad with suffering, have been cheered and benefited.  And you too are growing strong:  how glad I am to see it!  Your cheeks are tinged with just a delicate bloom, and you have grown taller.  Ah, the country is the place for you children!  I saw one of your sketches in the hospital the other day, hung under a little cross made of moss; it was