Part 3 (1/2)

”Make it wait a minute. I can't make it come right all so quick,” said Peggy. ”It's going to come, so make the crying wait. One day she was crying d'edful, worst than never, 'cos the sun had goned, and she couldn't see the white cottage no more, and just then she heard something saying, 'mew, mew,' and it was a kitten outside the window, and it was just going to fall down and be killed.”

”That's not coming right. I _must_ cry,” said Hal.

”But she opened the window--there now, you see--and she pulled the kitten in, so it didn't fall down, and it was so pleased it kissed her, and when it kissed her it turned into a fairy, and it touched her neck and made wings come, and then it opened the window again and flewed away with the little girl till they came to the white cottage, and then the little girl was quite happy for always.”

”Did the fairy stay with her always?” asked Hal.

”No; fairies never does like that. They go back to fairyland. But the little girl had nice milk and eggs and cakes, and she made nosegays with the flowers, and the sun was _always_ s.h.i.+ning, so she was quite, _quite_ happy.”

”Her couldn't be happy all alone,” said Hal. ”I don't like zat story, Peggy. You haven't made it nice at all. It's a nonsense story.”

Hal wriggled about and seemed very cross. Poor Peggy was not so much indignant as distressed at failing in her efforts to amuse him. What was the matter? It couldn't be that he was getting sleepy--it was far too early for his morning sleep.

”It isn't a nonsense story,” she said, and she glanced towards the window as she spoke. Yes, the sun was s.h.i.+ning brightly, the morning clouds had quite melted away; it was going to be a fine day after all.

And clear and white gleamed out the spot on the distant hill which Peggy loved to gaze at! ”Come here, Hal,” she said, getting on to her feet and helping Hal on to his, ”come with me to the window and you'll see if it's a nonsense story. Only you've never to tell n.o.body. It's Peggy's own secret.”

[Ill.u.s.tration: 'And above the top of all the houses, clear though faint, was now to be seen the outline of a range of hills, so softly gray-blue in the distance that but for the irregular line never changing in its form, one could easily have fancied it was only the edge of a quickly pa.s.sing ridge of clouds. Peggy, however, knew better.

”See, Hal,” she said, ”over there, far, far away, _neely_ in the sky, does you see that bluey hill?”']

Hal forgot his crossness in a minute; he felt so proud and honoured.

Peggy led him to the window. It was not a very pretty prospect; they looked out on to a commonplace street, houses on both sides, though just opposite there was a little variety in the shape of an old-fas.h.i.+oned, smoke-dried garden. Beyond that again, more houses, more streets, stretching away out into suburbs, and somewhere beyond all that again the mysterious, beautiful, enchanting region which the children spoke of and believed in as ”the country,” not really so far off after all, though to them it seemed so.

And above the tops of all the houses, clear though faint, was now to be seen the outline of a range of hills, so softly gray-blue in the distance that but for the irregular line never changing in its form, one could easily have fancied it was only the edge of a quickly pa.s.sing ridge of clouds. Peggy, however, knew better.

”See, Hal,” she said, ”over there, far, far away, _neely_ in the sky, does you see that bluey hill?”

Of course he saw, agreeing so readily that Peggy was sure he did not distinguish rightly, which was soon proved to be the case by his announcing that ”The 'ill were sailing away.”

”No, no, it isn't,” Peggy cried. ”You've mustooked a cloud, Hal. See now,” and by bringing her own eyes exactly on a level with a certain spot on the gla.s.s she was able to place his correctly, ”just over that little bubble in the window you can see it. Its top goes up above the bubble and then down and then up again, and it never moves like the clouds--does you see now, Hallie dear?”

”Zes, zes,” said Hal, ”but it's a _wenny_ little 'ill, Peggy.”

”No, dear,” his sister explained. ”It only looks little 'cos it's so far away. _You_ is too little to understand, dear, but it's true that it's a big hill, neely a mounting, Hal. Mamma told me.”

”Oh,” said Hal, profoundly impressed and quite convinced.

”Mountings is _old_ hills, or big hills,” Peggy continued, herself slightly confused. ”I don't know if they is the papas and mammas of the little ones, but I think it's something like that, for onst in church I heard the clergymunt read that the little hills jumped for joy, so they must be the children. I'll ask mamma, and then I'll tell you. I'm not quite sure if he meaned the same kind, for these hills never jumps--that's how mamma told me to know they wasn't clouds.”

”Zes,” said Hal, ”but go on about the secret, Peggy. Hal doesn't care about the 'ills.”

”But the secret's _on_ the hills,” replied Peggy. ”Look more, Hal--does you see a teeny, _teeny_ white spot on the bluey hill? Higher up than the bubble, but not at the top quite?”

Hal's eyes were good and his faith was great.

”Zes, zes,” he cried. ”I does see it--kite plain, Peggy.”

”Well, Hallie,” Peggy continued, ”_that's_ my secret.”