Adela Cathcart, vol 3 | Page 8

to meet every utterance,
and take it home, by which the vanity of the old bachelor would have
been flattered to the full, had not his heart come first, and forestalled
the delight.
So absorbed was I in considering these things, that the time passed like
one of my thoughts; and before I knew I found myself on the verge of
the perilous moor over which Harry had ridden in the teeth and heart of
the storm. How smooth yet cruel it looked in its thick covering of snow!
There was heather beneath, within which lay millions of purple bells,
ready to rush out at the call of summer, and ring peals of merry
gladness, making the desolate place not only blossom but rejoice as the
rose. And there were cold wells of brown water beneath that snow, of
depth unknown, which nourished nothing but the green grass that hid
the cold glare of their presence from the eyes of the else warefully
affrighted traveller. And I thought of Adela when I thought of the
heather; and of some other woman whom I had known, when I thought
of the wells.
When I came home, I told Adela where I had been, and what a desolate
place it was. And the flush that rose on her pale cheek was just like the
light of the sunset which I had left shining over the whiteness of that

snowy region. And I said to myself: "It is so. And I trust it may be
well."
As I walked home, I had bethought myself of a story which I had
brought down with me in the hope of a chance of reading it, but which
Adela's illness had put out of my mind; for it was only a child's story;
and although I hoped older people might find something in it, it would
have been absurd to read it without the presence of little children. So I
said to Adela:
"Don't you know any little children in Purleybridge, Adela?"
"Oh! yes; plenty."
"Couldn't you ask some of them one night, and I would tell them a
story. I think at this season they should have a share in what is going,
and I have got one I think they would like."
"I shall be delighted. I will speak to papa about it at once. But next
time--."
"Yes, I know. Next time Harry Armstrong was going to read; but to tell
you the truth, Adela, I doubt if he will be ready. I know he is dreadfully
busy just now, and I believe he will be thankful to have a reprieve for a
day or two, and his story, which I expect will be a good one, will be all
the better for it."
"Then I will speak to papa about it the moment he comes in; and you
will tell Mr. Henry. And mind, uncle, you take the change upon your
own shoulders."
"Trust me, my dear," I said, as I left the room.
As I had anticipated, Harry was grateful. Everything was arranged. So
the next evening but one, we had a merry pretty company of boys and
girls, none older, or at least looking older, than twelve. It did my heart
good to see how Adela made herself at home with them, and talked to
them as if she were one of themselves. By the time tea was over, I had

made friends with them all, which was a stroke in its way nearly equal
to Chaucer's, who made friends with all the nine and twenty Canterbury
pilgrims before the sun was down. And the way I did was this. I began
with the one next me, asking her the question:
"Do you like fairy-stories?"
"Yes, I do," answered she, heartily.
"Did you ever hear of the princess with the blue foot?"
"No. Will you tell me, please?"
Then I turned to the one on my other side, and asked her:
"Did you ever hear of the giant that was all skin--not skin and bone,
you know, but all skin?"
"No-o" she answered, and her round blue eyes got rounder and bluer.
The next was a boy. I asked him:
"Did you ever hear of Don Worm of Wakemup?"
"No. Do please tell us about it."
And so I asked them, round the room. And by that time all eyes were
fixed upon me. Then I said:
"You see I cannot tell you all these stories to-night. But would you all
like one of some sort?"
A chorus of I should filled the room.
"What shall it be about, then?"
"A wicked fairy."
"No; that's stupid. I'm tired of wicked fairies," said a scornful little girl.

"A good giant, then," said a priggish imp, with a face as round as the
late plum-pudding.