On a Pincushion

she returned and saw how much poor Ursula had changed. “Don’t you like being here? Aren’t they kind to you?”

“Take me back, dear Taboret,” cried Ursula, weeping. “Take me back to Oliver, and Philip, and Bell. As for these people, I hate them.”

And she wept again.

Taboret only smiled and patted her head, and then went into the King and courtiers.

“Now, how is it,” she cried, “I find the Princess Ursula in tears? and I am sure you are making her unhappy. When you had that bit of wood-and-leather Princess, you could behave well enough to it, but now that you have a real flesh-and-blood woman, you none of you care for her.”

“Our late dear daughter⁠—” began the King, when the fairy interrupted him.

“I do believe,” she said, “that you would like to have the doll back again. Now I will give you your choice. Which will you have⁠—my Princess Ursula, the real one, or your Princess Ursula, the sham?”

The King sank back into his chair. “I am not equal to this,” he said: “summon the council, and let them settle it by vote.” So the council were summoned, and the fairy explained to them why they were wanted.

“Let both Princesses be fetched,” she said; and the toy Princess was brought in with great care from her cupboard, and her head stood on the table beside her, and the real Princess came in with her eyes still red from crying and her bosom heaving.

“I should think there could be no doubt which one would prefer,” said the Prime Minister to the Chancellor.

“I should think not either,” answered the Chancellor.

“Then vote,” said Taboret; and they all voted, and every vote was for the sham Ursula, and not one for the real one. Taboret only laughed.

“You are a pack of sillies and idiots,” she said, “but you shall have what you want;” and she picked up the head, and with a wave of her wand stuck it on to the body, and it moved round slowly and said, “Certainly,” just in its old voice; and on hearing this, all the courtiers gave something as like a cheer as they thought polite, whilst the old King could not speak for joy.

“We will,” he cried, “at once make our arrangements for abdicating and leaving the government in the hands of our dear daughter;” and on hearing this the courtiers all applauded again.

But Taboret laughed scornfully, and taking up the real Ursula in her arms, flew back with her to Mark’s cottage.

In the evening the city was illuminated, and there were great rejoicings at the recovery of the Princess, but Ursula remained in the cottage and married Oliver, and lived happily with him for the rest of her life.

Through the Fire

Little Jack sat alone by the fire, watching it sadly. He was seven years old, but so small and pale that he looked little more than five, for he was a cripple, He had no brothers or sisters, and he was nearly always alone, for his mother, who was a widow, went out all day to teach music, and often in the evening also to play dance-music at children’s parties. They lived on the third floor of a small house in a dull old street in London, and Jack spent nearly all day in the little lonely sitting-room by himself, sitting by the fire. Tonight he felt sadder than usual, for it was Christmas-eve, and his mother had gone to a child’s party at a grand house, and she had said that there would most likely be a Christmas-tree there, with presents on it for all the little boys and girls, and Jack thought it very hard that when other children had so much more pleasure than he, they must even rob him of his own mother.

If she were at home she would sit by him on the hearthrug and take his head in her lap and tell him long, long stories of giants and fairies. Generally he liked her to go to parties, for, where-ever it was, she never forgot to bring him something from the supper-table; no matter how little a thing it might be, only a cracker or a single sweet, but he was sure to find something waiting for him on his pillow when he woke in the morning; and, indeed, sometimes there had been quite a nice little parcel of sweets and crackers and dried fruits sent to him by the mistress of the house or some of the children, when his mother had dared to ask if she might take something to her little boy at home.

But tonight he wanted his mother herself, and did not care for anything she would bring him in the morning. He sat and thought till the tears rose to his eyes, and he sobbed outright.

“It’s a shame,” he said, “a dreadful shame. I think it’s too bad;” and he seized the poker, and gave the fire a great dig.

“For pity’s sake, don’t do that again,” said a small voice from the flames; “it’s enough to break one to bits.”

Jack stopped crying and looked into the fire. There he saw a little figure, the strangest he had ever beheld, balancing itself skilfully on the top of a piece of burning coal. It was just like a little man, not more than three inches high, dressed from head to foot in orange-scarlet, the colour of flame, and wearing on his head a long pointed cap of the same colour.

“Who are you?” asked Jack, breathlessly.

“Don’t you know that it’s rude to ask questions?” said the mannikin, winking one eye. “However, if you very much want to know, I’m a fire-fairy.” .

“A fire-fairy!” repeated Jack, still staring and breathless.

“Yes; is that so very strange?”

“But I don’t believe in fairies,” said Jack, unable to remove his eyes from the weird little figure.

The little man laughed.

“That doesn’t make any difference to me,” he said. “Perhaps you don’t believe in wind-fairies or water-fairies either. But you’d