“Then all her troubles were forgotten, and every one rejoiced, save perhaps the three unsuccessful Princesses, who consoled themselves by saying there was magic in it, and so possibly there was.  But there is more than one kind of magic, and some kinds, it is to be hoped, the world will never be without.  And messengers were sent to summon to the wedding the father and mother of the Princess, who all this time had been in doubt and anxiety as to the fate of their dear child.  And the kind old woman who had sheltered her in her poverty and distress was not forgotten.”

The voice stopped—­for a minute or two the children sat silent, not sure if they were to hear anything else.  Strangely enough, as the story went on, it seemed more and more as if it were Marcelline’s voice that was telling it, and at last Hugh looked up to see if it was still the white lady, whose knee his head was resting on.  Jeanne too looked up at the same moment, and both children gave a little cry of surprise.  The white lady had disappeared, and it was indeed Marcelline who was in her place.  The white room, the white chairs, the white cats, the spinning-wheel, and the pointed windows, had all gone, and instead there was old Marcelline with her knitting-needles gently clicking in a regular way, that somehow to Hugh seemed mixed up with his remembrance of the soft whirr of the wheel, her neatly frilled cap round her face, and her bright dark eyes smiling down at the children.  Hugh felt so sorry and disappointed that he shut his eyes tight and tried to go on dreaming, if indeed dreaming it was.  But it was no use.  He leant his face against Marcelline’s soft white apron and tried to fancy it the fairy lady’s fairy robe; but it was no use.  He had to sit up and look about him.

“Well,” said Marcelline, “and didn’t you like the story?”

Hugh looked at Jeanne.  It couldn’t be a dream then—­there had been a story, for if he had been asleep, of course he couldn’t have heard it.  He said nothing, however—­he waited to see what Jeanne would say.  Jeanne tossed back her head impatiently.

“Of course I liked it,” she said.  “It’s a beautiful story.  But, Marcelline, how did you turn into yourself—­was it you all the time?  Why didn’t you leave us with the white lady?”

Hugh was so pleased at what Jeanne said that he didn’t mind a bit about Marcelline having taken the place of the white lady.  Jeanne was the same as he was—­that was all he cared about.  He jumped up eagerly—­they were in Jeanne’s room, close to the fire, and both Jeanne and he had their little red flannel dressing-gowns on.

“How did these come here?” he said, touching the sleeve of his own one.

“Yes,” said Jeanne.  “And where are our wings, if you please, Mrs. Marcelline?”

Marcelline only smiled.

“I went to fetch you,” she said, “and of course I didn’t want you to catch cold on the way back.”