First, she put the tip of one finger into the rushing sparkle, slowly, to lengthen out her joy.  Next, with a little laugh, she sank her whole hand.  Bubbles formed upon it,—­all sizes of them—­standing out like dewdrops upon leaves.  The bubbles cooled.  And tempted her thirst.  With a deep breath, she bent forward until her red mouth touched the shimmering surface.  Thus, lying prone, with arms spread wide, she drank deep of the flow.

When she straightened and sat back upon her heels, she made an astonishing discovery:  The trees that studded the slope were not covered with leaves, like ordinary trees!  Each branched to hold lights—­myriads of lights!  Some of these shone steadily; others burned with a hissing sound; others were silent enough, but rose and fell, jumped and flickered.  It was these countless lights that illumed the forest like a pink sun.

She rose.  There was wonder in the gray eyes.  “Are these Christmas trees?” she said.  “Where am I?”

“You’ve had your soda-water,” he answered shortly.  “You ought to know.”

“Yes, I—­I ought to know.  But—­I don’t.”

He grunted.

“I s’pose,” she ventured timidly, “that nobody ever answers questions here, either.”

He looked uncomfortable.  “Yes,” he retorted, “everybody does.”

“Then,”—­advancing an eager step—­“why don’t you?”

He mopped his forehead.  “Well—­well—­if I must, I must:  This is where all the lights go when they’re put out at night.”

“Oh!” And now as she glanced from tree to tree she saw that what he had said was true.  For the greater part of the lights were electric bulbs; while many were gas-jets, and a few kerosene-flames.

Still marveling, her look chanced to fall upon herself.  And she found that she was not wearing a despised muslin frock!  Her dress was gingham!—­an adorable plaid with long sleeves, and a patch-pocket low down on the right side!

“You darling!” she exclaimed happily, and thrust a hand into the pocket.  “I guess They made it!”

Next she looked down at her feet—­and could scarcely believe!  She had on no stockings!  She did not even have on slippers. She was barefoot!

Then, still fearful that there was some mistake about it all, she put a hand to her head; and found her hair-bow gone!  In its place, making a small floppy double knot, was a length of black shoe-string!

“Oh, goody!” she cried.

“Um!” grunted the little old gentleman.  “And you can play in the water if you’d like to.”

That needed no urging!  She was face about on the instant.

From the standpoint of messing the soda-stream was ideal.  It brawled around flat rocks, set at convenient jumping-distances from one another.  (She leaped promptly to one of these and sopped her handkerchief.) It circled into sand-bottomed pools just shallow enough for wading; and from the pools, it spread out thinly to thread the grass, thus giving her an opportunity for squashing—­a diverting pastime consisting in squirting equal parts of water and soil ticklishly through the toes.  She hopped from rock to pool; she splashed from pool to long, wet, muddy grass.