“How do they know their places?” you asked, or should have asked.  Yes, and they have to do much more than know them:  they have to find their way to them, and that quietly and at once, without running against each other.

We may, indeed, state it briefly thus:—­Suppose you have to build a castle, with towers and roofs and buttresses, out of bricks of a given shape, and that these bricks are all lying in a huge heap at the bottom, in utter confusion, upset out of carts at random.  You would have to draw a great many plans, and count all your bricks, and be sure you had enough for this and that tower, before you began, and then you would have to lay your foundation, and add layer by layer, in order, slowly.

But how would you be astonished, in these melancholy days, when children don’t read children’s books, nor believe any more in fairies, if suddenly a real benevolent fairy, in a bright brick-red gown, were to rise in the midst of the red bricks, and to tap the heap of them with her wand, and say, “Bricks, bricks, to your places!” and then you saw in an instant the whole heap rise in the air, like a swarm of red bees, and—­you have been used to see bees make a honeycomb, and to think that strange enough, but now you would see the honeycomb make itself!—­You want to ask something, Florrie, by the look of your eyes.

Florrie.  Are they turned into real bees, with stings?

L. No, Florrie; you are only to fancy flying bricks, as you saw the slates flying from the roof the other day in the storm; only those slates didn’t seem to know where they were going, and, besides, were going where they had no business:  but my spell-bound bricks, though they have no wings, and what is worse, no heads and no eyes, yet find their way in the air just where they should settle, into towers and roofs, each flying to his place and fastening there at the right moment, so that every other one shall fit to him in his turn.

Lily.  But who are the fairies, then, who build the crystals?

L. There is one great fairy, Lily, who builds much more than crystals; but she builds these also.  I dreamed that I saw her building a pyramid, the other day, as she used to do, for the Pharaohs.

Isabel.  But that was only a dream?

L. Some dreams are truer than some wakings, Isabel; but I won’t tell it you unless you like.

Isabel.  Oh, please, please.

L. You are all such wise children, there’s no talking to you; you won’t believe anything.

Lily.  No, we are not wise, and we will believe anything, when you say we ought.

L. Well, it came about this way.  Sibyl, do you recollect that evening when we had been looking at your old cave by Cumae, and wondering why you didn’t live there still:  and then we wondered how old you were; and Egypt said you wouldn’t tell, and nobody else could tell but she; and you laughed—­I thought very gayly for a Sibyl—­and said you would harness a flock of cranes for us, and we might fly over to Egypt if we liked, and see.