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confusing buzzall round the hall. "Her majesty wishes to take a littleexercise"--"her majesty wishes to take a little exercise," till Louisacould have shaken them all heartily, she felt so provoked. Thensuddenly the throne began to squeak and grunt (Louisa thought _it_ wasgoing to talk about her taking exercise next), and after it had givenvent to all manner of unearthly sounds it jerked itself up, first on oneside and then on the other, like a very rheumatic old woman, and at lastslowly moved away. None of the fairies were pushing it, that was plain;and at first Louisa was too much occupied in wondering what made itmove, to find fault with the mode of exercise permitted to her. Thethrone rolled slowly along, all round the hall, and wherever it appeareda crowd of fairies scuttled away, all chattering the same words--"Hermajesty is taking a little exercise," till at last, with renewed jerksand grunts and groans, her queer conveyance settled itself again in itsold place. As soon as it was still, Louisa tried to get down, but nosooner did she put one foot on the ground than a crowd of fairiesrespectfully lifted it up again on to the footstool. This happened twoor three times, till Louisa's patience was again exhausted.

  "Get out of my way," she exclaimed, "you horrid little things, get outof my way; I want to get down and run about."

  But the fairies took no notice of what she said, till for the third timeshe repeated it. Then they all spoke at once.

  "Her majesty wants to take a little _more_ exercise," they buzzed in alldirections, till Louisa was so completely out of patience that she burstinto tears.

  "I won't stay to be your queen," she said, "it's not nice at all. Iwant to go home to my mamma. I want to go home to my mamma. I want togo home to my mamma."

  "We don't know what mammas are," said the fairies. "We haven't anythingof that kind here."

  "That's a story," said Louisa. "There--are mammas here. I've seenseveral. There's Mrs Brown, and there's Lady Flossy, and there's--no,the Chinese princesses haven't a mamma. But you see there are two amongmy mamma's own reels in her workb--."

  But before she could finish the word the fairies all set up a terrificshout. "The word, the word," they cried, "the word that no one mustmention here. Hush! hush! hush!"

  They all turned upon Louisa as if they were going to tear her to pieces.In her terror she uttered a piercing scream, and--woke.

  She wasn't in bed; where was she? Could she be in the workbox?Wherever she was it was quite dark and cold, and something was pressingagainst her head, and her legs were aching. Suddenly there came a flashof light. Some one had opened the door, and the light from the hallstreamed in. The some one was Louisa's mamma.

  "Who is in here? Did I hear some one calling out?" she exclaimedanxiously.

  Louisa was slowly recovering her wits. "It was me, mamma," sheanswered; "I didn't know where I was, and I was so frightened and I amso cold. Oh mamma!"

  A flood of tears choked her.

  "You poor child," exclaimed her mamma, hurrying back to the hall tofetch a lamp, as she spoke, "why, you have fallen asleep on thehearth-rug, and the fire's out; and my workbox--what is it doing here?Were you using it for a pillow?"

  "No," said Louisa, eyeing the workbox suspiciously, "it was on thechair, and the corner of it has hurt my head, mamma; it was pressingagainst it." Her mamma lifted the box on to the table.

  "Are they all in there, mamma?" whispered Louisa, timidly.

  "All in where? All who? What are you speaking about, my dear?"

  "The fairies--the reels I mean," replied Louisa. "My dear, you aredreaming still," said her mamma, laughing, but seeing that Louisa lookeddissatisfied, "never mind, you shall tell me your dreams to-morrow. Butjust now you must really go to bed. It is nine o'clock--you have beentwo hours asleep. I went out of the room in a hurry, taking the lampwith me because it was not burning rightly, and then I heard babycrying--he is very cross to-night--and both nurse and I forgot aboutyou. Now go, dear, and get well warmed at the nursery fire before yougo to bed."

  Louisa trotted off. She had no more dreams that night, but when shewoke the next morning, her poor little legs were still aching. She hadcaught cold the night before, there was no doubt, so her mamma, takingsome blame to herself for her having fallen asleep on the floor, wasparticularly kind and indulgent to her. She brought her down to thedrawing-room wrapped in a shawl, and established her comfortably in anarm-chair.

  "What will you have to play with?" she asked. "Would you like myworkbox?"

  "I don't know," said Louisa, doubtfully. "Mamma," she continued, aftera moment's silence, "can queens never do what they like?"

  "Very often they can't," replied her mamma. "What makes you ask?"

  "I dreamt I was a queen," said Louisa.

  "Did you? What country were you queen of?"

  "I was queen of the reel fairies," replied the child gravely. Hermother looked mystified "Tell me what you mean, dear," she said. "Tellme all about it."

  So bit by bit Louisa explained the whole, and her mamma had for once apeep into that strange, fantastic, mysterious world, which we call achild's imagination. She had a glimpse of something else too. She sawthat her little girl was in danger of getting to live too much alone,was in need of sympathy and companionship.

  "I think it was what Frances Gordon said that made me dream about beinga queen," she said.

  "And do you still wish you were a queen?" said her mamma.

  "No," said Louisa.

  "A princess then?"

  "No," she replied again. "But, mamma--"

  "Well, dear?"

  "I do wish sometimes that I was pretty, and that--that--I don't know howto say it--that people made a fuss about me sometimes."

  Her mamma looked a little grave and a little sad; but still she smiled.She could not be angry--thought Louisa.

  "Is it naughty, mamma?" she whispered.

  "Naughty? No, dear; it is a wish most little girls have, I fancy--andbig ones too. But some day you will understand how it might grow into awrong feeling, and how on the other side a little of it may be useful tohelp good feelings. And till you understand better, dear, doesn't itmake you happy to know that to me you could not be dearer if you werethe most beautiful little princess in the world."

  "As beautiful as Princess Fair Star, mamma?"

  "Yes, or any other princess you can think of. I would rather have mylittle mouse of a girl than any of them."

  Louisa nestled closer to her mamma with great satisfaction. "I like youto call me your mouse, mamma; and do you know I almost think I likehaving a cold."

  Her mother laughed. "Am I making a little fuss about you? Is that whatyou like?"

  Louisa laughed too.

  "Do you think I should leave off playing with the reels, and makingstories about them, mamma? Is it silly?"

  "No, dear, not if it amuses you," said her mother.

  But though Louisa did not leave off playing with the reels altogether,she gradually came to find that she preferred other amusements. Hermother taught her several pretty kinds of work, and read aloud storiesto her more often than formerly. And, somehow, Louisa never again caredquite as much for her old friends. She thought the Chinese princesseshad grown rather "stuck-up" and affected, and she could not get over astrong suspicion that "Clarke's Number 12" was very ready to beimpertinent, if he could ever again get a chance.

  CHAPTER THREE.

  GOOD-NIGHT, WINNY.

  "Say not good-night--but, in some brighter clime, Bid me good-morning!"

  When I was a little girl I was called Meg. I do not mean to say that Ihave got a different name now that I am big, but my name is _used_differently. I am now called Margaret, or sometimes Madge, but neverMeg. Indeed I do not wish ever to be called Meg, for a reason you willquite understand when you have heard my story. But perhaps I am wrongto call it a "story" at all, so I had better say at the beginning thatwhat I have to tell you is only a sort of remembrance of something thathappened to me when I was very little--of some one I loved more dearly,I think, than I can ever love
any one again. And I fancy perhaps otherlittle girls will like to hear it.

  Well then, to begin again--long ago I used to be called Meg, and theperson who first called me so was my sister Winny, who was not quite twoyears older than I. There were four of us then--four little sisters--Winny, and I, and Dolly, and Blanche, baby Blanche we used to call her.We lived in the country in a pretty house, which we were very fond of,particularly in the summer time, when the flowers were all out. Winnyloved flowers more dearly than any one I ever knew, and she taught me