The Little Red Chimney | Page 6

godmothers somehow do not go together. Still, I see what you mean,
and while I have not as yet worked out the plan, I'm confident it could
be managed. Suppose we know a poor teacher, for instance, who has
nothing left over from her meagre salary after the necessary things are
provided for, and who is, we'll say, hungry for grand opera. We would
enclose opera tickets with a note asking her to go and have a good time,
signed, 'Your Fairy Godmother,' and with a postscript something like

this, 'If you cannot use them, hand them on to another of my
godchildren.' Don't you think she would accept them?"
Under the spell of those lovely, serious eyes, the Candy Man rather
thought she would.
"Of course," Miss Bentley went on, "it must be a secret society, never
mentioned in the papers, unknown to those you call its beneficiaries. In
this way there will be no occasion or demand for gratitude. No
obligations will be imposed upon the recipients--that word is as bad as
yours--let's call them godchildren--and the fairy godmother will have
her fun in giving the good times, without bothering over whether they
are properly grateful."
"You seem to have a grievance against gratitude," said the Candy Man
laughing.
"I have," she owned.
"There are people who contend that there is little or none of it in the
world," he added.
"And I am not sure it was meant there should be--much of it, I mean. It
is an emotion--would you call it an emotion?"
"You might," said the Candy Man.
"Well, an emotion that turns to dust and ashes when you try to
experience it, or demand it of others," concluded Miss Bentley with
emphasis. "And you needn't laugh," she added.
The Candy Man disclaimed any thought of such a thing. He was
profoundly serious. "It is really a great idea," he said. "A human agency
whose benefits could be received as we receive those of Nature or
Providence--as impersonally."
She nodded appreciatively. "You understand." And they were both
aware of a sense of comradeship scarcely justified by the length of their

acquaintance.
"May I ask your ideas as to the amount of this fund?" he said.
She considered a moment. "Well, say a hundred thousand," she
suggested.
"You are expecting a large bequest, then."
"An income of five thousand would not be too much," insisted Miss
Bentley. "We should wish to do bigger things than opera tickets, you
know."
"There are persons who perhaps need a fairy godmother, whom money
cannot help," the Candy Man continued thoughtfully. "There's an old
man--not so old either--a sad grey man, whom the children on our
block call the Miser. I am not an adept in reading faces, but I am sure
there is nothing mean in his. It is only sad. I get interested in people,"
he added.
"So do I," cried his companion. "And of course, you are right. The
Fairy Godmother Society would have to have more than one
department. Naturally opera tickets would not do your man any
good--unless we could get him to send them."
They laughed over this clever idea, and the Candy Man went on to say
that there were lonely people in the world, who, through no fault of
their own, were so circumstanced as to be cut off from those common
human relationships which have much to do with the flavour of life.
"I don't quite understand," Miss Bentley began. But these young
persons were not to be left to settle the affairs of the universe in one
morning. A handkerchief waved in the distance by a stoutish lady,
interrupted. "There's Cousin Prue," Miss Bentley cried, springing to her
feet.
Hastily dividing her flowers into two bunches, she thrust one upon the
Candy Man. "For your sick boy. You won't mind, as it isn't far. I have

so enjoyed talking to you, Mr. McAllister. I shall hope to see you soon
again. Aunt Eleanor often speaks of you."
This sudden descent to the conventional greatly embarrassed the Candy
Man, but he had no time for a word. Miss Bentley was off like a flash,
across the grass, before he could collect his scattered wits. He looked
after her, till, in company with the stout lady, she disappeared from
view. Then with a whimsical expression on his countenance, he took a
leather case from his breast pocket, and opening it glanced at one of the
cards within. It was as if he doubted his own identity and wished to be
reassured.
The name engraved on the card was not McAllister, but Robert Deane
Reynolds.
CHAPTER THREE
In which the Little Red Chimney appears on the horizon, but without a
clue to its importance. In which also the Candy Man has a glimpse of
high life