A long, rapturous sigh was the only answer.  It lasted while the queen got down on her knees—­just like an every-day, ordinary person—­and pulled from under the throne a great carved chest.  She threw open the lid wide; and there, heaped to the top and spilling over, were dresses and mantles and coats and trousers and caps.  They were all lengths, sizes, and fashions—­just what you most wanted after you had been in bed for years and never worn anything but a hospital shirt; and everything was made of cloth o’ dreams and embroidered with pearls from the River of Make-Believe.

“You can choose whatever you like, dearies,” said the queen.  And that—­according to Susan—­was the best of all.

Next came the dancing; the Apostles remembered about that co-operatively.  They had donned pants of pink and yellow, respectively, with shirts of royal purple and striked stockings, when the pipers began to play.  James said it sounded like soldiers marching; John was certain that it was more like a circus; but I am inclined to believe that they played “The Music of Glad Memories” and “What-is-Sure-to-Come-True,” for those are the two popular airs in Tir-na-n’Og.

Away and away must have danced pairs of little feet that had never danced before, and pairs of old feet that had long ago forgotten how; and millions of faery feet, for no one can dance half as joyously as when faeries dance with them.  And I have heard it said that the pipers there can play sadness into gladness, and tears into laughter, and old age young again; and that those who have ever danced to the music of faery pipes never really grow heavy-hearted again.

Needless to say, the Apostles danced together, and Peter danced with Toby; and it must have been the maddest, merriest dance, for they never told about it afterward without bursting into peal after peal of laughter.  Truth to tell, the Apostles’ patch of fancy ended right there—­all raveling out into smiles and squirms of delight.

Another memory of Sandy’s adjoins that of the Apostles’; and he told it with great precision and regard for the truth.

Ever since crossing the River of Make-Believe Sandy had been able to think of nothing but the story Bridget had told—­the very last thing in Ward C—­and ever since he had left the leprechaun’s bush behind he had been wondering and scheming how he could get rid of his hump.  He was the only person in Tir-na-n’Og that night who did not dance.  Unnoticed, he climbed into a corner of the throne—­among the sleeping baby faeries—­and there he thought hard.  As he listened to the pipers’ music he shook his head mournfully.