Mr. Warren came in and welcomed his guest cordially, looking over the little girl about whom they had speculated. She was very attractive just now, with her face of sunshine and her eyes with their starry look under the long curling lashes.

The men had to discuss the queer unexpected fortune. The Warrens had been notified nearly a year before.

"But I hadn't much faith in it," laughed Mr. Warren. "My wife had really forgotten her family lineage, and we should hardly have claimed the Schermerhorns. There's so much red tape in these matters and by the time the expenses are paid, there's little left for the heirs, but this turns out better than I supposed, considering the many descendants the old man had. I can't complain of the lawyers."

"And we were very glad to find Marion's child, though I wish I had known it when her mother died. Do you want to keep her at Newton?"

"I think Miss Armitage has some claims," he returned.

"And I feel as if we ought to make up for our negligence."

The children were in a little huddle on the corner of the sofa. What was Newton like? A real city?

"Why there are some beautiful long streets and stores and churches and a park and rows of houses built together like this, and schools and trolleys—"

"Why it must be a city then?" said Edith. "Has it a mayor and a city hall and a postoffice?"

"It has a mayor and a postoffice and a court house. Mr. Borden used to talk of going there."

"It is a very old town," explained the guardian, "dating farther back than the Revolution, yet it was not much of a business center until the last thirty years; but it is very pretty and rather aristocratic."

"Children," said their mother, "go and make yourselves ready for dinner."

"What lovely curly hair," exclaimed May, half in envy. "I wish mine curled."

"But you have two such beautiful braids." "Jessie's curled a little but it was so thin mother kept cutting it. Dear me! You wouldn't catch me soaping and brushing the curl out of it if mine curled," declared May.

They had a rather merry time at dinner and the children did not seem a bit afraid to talk, though they were not aggressive. But Dr. Richards thought his little ward compared very favorably with the others. Her daintiness suggested Miss Armitage, he fancied.

They sat a long while over their dessert of fruit and nuts, and then the guest said he would have to go as he wanted to attend a lecture by an eminent surgeon. He would be in tomorrow morning.

"I thought I would take Marilla out shopping with me. Come in to dinner again and spend the whole evening."

Dr. Richards promised to.

The others went up to the sitting room. Mr. Warren took possession of the big Morris chair, May had one knee, Jessie the other and Edith seated herself on the broad arm and placed her arm over her father's shoulder. They always exacted an hour of their father and he gave it with the utmost fondness.

"And here is a place for you, little Marilla," he said. "Now the chair is full. I've wondered sometimes if Edith wouldn't tip us over."

"I'd have to be as fat as Auntie Belle to do that," she laughed, "and now papa I want Marilla to tell you about a queer Home she was put in where they wouldn't let the little girls have dolls nor playthings, and they made dollies out of clothes pins and had to hide them."

"That was cruel to little girls. Why they have dolls by right and no one should prevent them. Didn't you play any?"

"Oh yes, out of doors, tag and Uncle John and Scotland's burning, and Lady Jane, and Ring around a Rosy; and then in summer you had to pull weeds in the garden. When it rained you had to march in doors, but if you tried to dance a little you had to go and sit down. Oh, they were very strict."

"And what else did you do?"

"All the bigger girls made the beds and twice a week brushed up the floors, and every little while you went in the kitchen for a week and helped with the cooking so you would know how to work. When you were twelve they bound you out and you had to stay until you were eighteen."

"But didn't you study any?"

"Oh, yes, there was school every day."

"And did you get bound-out?"

"Yes." She flushed a little.

"But you did not stay?"

"Oh, tell papa about the babies," cried Edith.

"And did you ever notice the Campbell's soup little girl with her round eyes?"

"Who gets fat on eating soup? Yes," and he laughed.

"They looked something like that," said Marilla. "They were so fat and they had such round eyes, and you could make them laugh so easily. I went to take care of them and amuse them, but they were so good, they hardly ever cried, and I used to ride them round—they had such a beautiful wagon! But sometimes it seemed so heavy, it had to be big, you know, and then there was Jack. He wasn't very good, but after awhile he went to kindergarten."

"But how did you get away if you were bound?"

She told the story very simply and how a lovely lady took her in and she was ill a long while, and she knew this was a fairy godmother, so she always called her that, because—

"Because what?"

"It was a curious dream I had. Bridget said it was a dream; but it seemed so real, and I was Cinderella."

"Oh, do tell us!" they pleaded.

"I am afraid it's silly," and she flushed.

"Cinderella is lovely, and did you see the Prince?"

They all looked so eager that she was persuaded. So she began by sitting in the corner of the kitchen and they listened as if they were enchanted. She was so vivid it seemed as if her face was transfigured. Mrs. Warren dropped her sewing and bent forward.

Edith drew a long breath and squeezed the new cousin's hand. "Oh" she cried, "it's lovelier than the real Cinderella, and you danced with the Prince? Can you dance—truly?"

"Oh, yes, after that, I used to dance for Bridget. Mrs. Johnson wouldn't let you, she thought it wicked. It's queer how people think about things, and I danced for the babies. Mrs. Borden and her sister went to dancing parties; they didn't think it wrong. It's so beautiful."

"Our cousins Isabel and Charlie Firth go to dancing school. Mother thinks I may go next winter. They are teaching it in some schools."

"Children," said Mrs. Warren, "do you know what time it is? You must go to bed. Marilla you have betwitched us all. And papa will have hardly time to read his paper. Come. Marilla will not run away, so you can have her tomorrow night."

Mr. Warren kissed all the little girls and they trooped off.

"You may sleep on the lounge in my room, Edith, and give Marilla your bed, I can't send her up stairs alone, and now you must not say a word after your prayers for I know she is clear tired out."

They were generally very good children to mind. Their mother left them with a good-night kiss. Mr. Warren had rolled his chair nearer the center table and taken up his paper.

"Mother," he exclaimed, "that Marilla is an unusual child. How beautifully she describes everything, but the sweetest trait about her is her utter lack of bitterness. Most children would have been sharp and disparaging about Mrs. Johnson, but she never uttered a bitter word. It really was wonderful. I hope that Dr. Richards will give her a first-class education, and I'd like to see that fairy godmother. Marilla needs good care, she isn't very strong, but there is happiness in every pulse of her small body. I wish we could keep her."

The next morning the children had to kiss her half a dozen times before they went to school, and make her promise over and over again that she would not let Dr. Richards take her home. While Mrs. Warren was doing up her morning's work Marilla wrote her letter to Miss Armitage, who smiled over the thrill of delight that ran through it. Aunt Grace was so sweet and lovely and she couldn't describe the girls for she didn't know any words that were beautiful enough and good enough to apply to them. Jessie was a real little beauty with the most wonderful eyes that were like brown velvet and sunshine, and she didn't know father's could be so sweet as Uncle Warren. Maybe Mr. Borden would love the twins that way when they grew older. They might be prettier then. But her dear fairy godmother lived in her mind all the time, she wanted her to see and hear everything. There would be so much to tell her that she couldn't write.

It was a wonderful day to Marilla. Such splendid stores and gowns that were fit for queens. Such beautiful dishes and jewelry, such stacks of books; and, oh, such dolls holding out their hands with a pleading look in their eyes. She could hardly tear herself away. Was she too big to have a doll?

Then they went into a cozy place and had a dainty lunch, only it did seem as if Marilla was too happy to eat. If fairy godmother were only here!

Afterward they went to the Eden Musee. You had to ride from place to place; why, it was full of strange people who never stirred. They could not be dead! What was the matter with them? The wonder in her eyes made Mrs. Warren smile. Some were funny, too; you wanted to laugh with them. Marilla sat down in perfect despair as if she had gone to some strange country.

"I don't see how they can make them just like folks," she said. "You feel almost sure they are going to speak to you."

A very tired little girl it was who came home, but it was such a pleasant, happy tired she didn't mind. It wasn't like dragging the heavy babies around. Aunt Grace made her lie down on the lounge and the girls gathered round her talking it over. They had been several times.

Then Dr. Richards came in and they had such a delightful time. Why the whole world of pleasure was fairy land when you come to think of it. "And there's the Hippodrome," said Edith. "Oh mother don't you believe father could take us on Saturday?"

"And couldn't I go, too?"

The doctor asked in such a whimsical tone that they all laughed. Jessie sidled up to him, she was well so she need not be afraid of a doctor. She was very sweet but she wasn't quite Cinderella.

What a fine evening they had! It seemed as if they must have known each other for years. Bits of Marilla's life came out unconsciously; the doing for others without thinking of herself that really did glorify it. Unwittingly she showed more of it to Dr. Richards than she had ever before in her gratitude. Under the children's questions some of the trials came out.

Every morning she wrote to Miss Armitage out of her full heart, and the lady understood how she would thrive in natural companionship. Almost she felt as if she ought to yield her to these relatives, but she wanted her. It was strange how she had left her impress everywhere yet she was a very modest little girl, demanding nothing, taking all favors with a gratitude that was fascinating. Jane rehearsed so many pretty sayings and missed her everywhere. Bridget came around to hear whether the story of the fortune was absolutely true. The Bordens could hardly believe it. Mr. John Borden wished they had not let her go quite so soon. "She certainly was a nice child," he said.

They went to the great stores and to Central Park, and Marilla overflowed with happiness. Why it was like the fairy dream, and she wished the girls at the Home could have some of it, or could find a fairy godmother. There were so many things to interest the doctor. How the days did slip away and all the time Marilla grew sweeter, dearer; but at last he said they must go home.

"Oh, how can we let you go?" cried Edith. "Why I do believe you came from fairy land yourself; but now you'll come and visit us often."

"And you can come to Newton. Fairy godmother has such a lovely house, and she is so sweet. You will like her."

Oh, the child ought not be on sufferance but have the genial freedom of a home of her very own where she could live over the childhood she had missed and learn the glad inspiration of youth.

What did Miss Armitage mean to do for her? Yes, she wanted her; why there would be a great loss in life without her, but she no longer needed charity. She could not do everything for her; as she had planned. Would she share a divided interest?

Dr. Richards heart yearned over her, coveted her. Marilla had crept in and taken possession of his inmost soul. It was not likely there would be any other occupant. For he had never seen any sign of relenting on Miss Armitage's part. They were excellent friends. Neither overstepped the prescribed bounds, and he must have something to love and to cherish.

But he had to tear himself away presently, and he carried her with him in his heart, and the next morning he dropped in and had her all to himself. Mrs. Warren had gone to the dressmakers.

"Oh," Marilla said with a long sigh of delight, "how lovely it is to have sisters! and—and a father! If I couldn't have but one I think I'd take the father. Isn't Mr. Warren just splendid and sweet and charming? There's a book of poems at Miss Armitage's that has one such beautiful thing—'The Children's Hour.' And they have it here. The hour after dinner if there are no visitors belongs to the children. The smaller ones take possession of his lap and Edith sits on the arm of the chair. I sat on the other," and she laughed with such a happy sound. "And they tell him everything, what they have read and studied, and the little troubles and differences and perplexities, and he listens and explains and laughs with them when it is funny, and everything is so nice. I didn't suppose fathers could be so dear and sweet, but I never knew any real father except Mr. Borden, and Jack was a torment. He wanted to pound and bang and wrinkle up things and ask silly questions. Maybe the twins will be different, and perhaps he will love girls the best."

"And you would like to have a father?" There was a subtle sweetness in his tone.

She drew a long breath, he felt the heart quiver irregularly, the little heart that would need careful watching the next few years, that so far had been worked pretty hard.

"Oh, so much!" There was an exquisite longing and a sound as of a prayer, "but you know I'd want some one I could love."

She was ready to give, not take all.

"Marilla, would I do?"

She raised her head and looked at him out of longing, pleading eyes that turned joyous like a sudden glowing sunrise.

"Oh!" she cried, "Oh!"

But the wonderful satisfying intonation would have moved any heart.

"And I want a little girl," he continued. "I shall never have one of my very own;"—it is the way a man thinks when he knows he cannot have the woman he would choose for the mother of his children.

She was silent. He saw the shining tears beading the curly lashes. She was sorry for him.

"And if you could be my little girl—"

"Oh, if I might!" and the longing freighted her tone. "If I could be good enough—if I could love you enough. Oh, I would try. I should be so happy. To have a father of one's own!"

"Children are sometimes adopted."

"Yes, they were at Bethany Home, but they had to be very pretty, I'm not—very."

"But I love you because you are you, I don't want you changed any way. I want a daughter to be a companion as I grow older, to read to me, to confide in me, to come to me in any trouble, to make a real home, for a man alone cannot do that, and to love me very, very dearly."

"I have always loved you," she said simply. Then after a moment—"would I live with you?"

"Yes, when I have found a pretty home, and you will make friends and have them visit you, and we will take journeys and have pleasures like the Warrens."

"Oh! How good you are!" in a tone of tremulous joy. There was a little twinge of conscience in both hearts concerning Miss Armitage. He salved his, thinking if she had wanted to she might have made some proffer of adoption. Marilla hardly knew how to choose between them. If they could both go and live in Loraine place!

"I'll see Lorimer this afternoon. You have to apply to the legislature, and you will have your name changed to Richards. Maybe the judge or some will one question you whether you are willing to take me for a father, since you are old enough to choose, and there are several formalities, but the thing is often done, and you will be mine, mine," pressing her to his heart in rapture.

"I am so glad." Every pulse throbbed with joy.

He yielded to the subtle satisfaction and kissed the sweet mouth. Oh, he must get her strong and well and give her a lovely, long life! Like a vision he could see her growing sweeter and dearer every year, making life blossom with her love.

Then Mrs. Warren returned and the girls came home to lunch, having a merry time talking over the Hippodrome.

"Nearly every Saturday papa takes us somewhere," said May. "There are some beautiful plays for children and concerts and all summer the park is splendid, though you can always go inside and there is so much to see; and an automobile ride! Oh, I wish you were going to live here!"

There were so many pleasures to give his little girl. It made his heart beat with joy to think he was going to have one. Life had seemed a bit lonely as he glanced down the years. It would never be lonely now. He would take such pleasure in making her happy.

"Yes," he went on. "I'll get a pretty home and we will always be together."



CHAPTER XIV

THE REAL FAIRYLAND

That evening the two cousins on the Warren side came in, Isabel and Willis Firth. Isabel was just the age of Edith and Willis, older. The children gave up their hour cheerfully. There was so much to talk about, and the school was going to have an entertainment—"The Dance of All Nations."

"I suppose not quite all," said Isabel, "though the boys are to give an Indian dance in costume, and the Dutch dance is in clogs, and oh, you can't imagine how funny and clumpy it sounds, but it is real pretty with the aprons and the caps, but the Spanish is beautiful with castanets. You must all come. Is your friend staying long?"

"I think"—rather hesitatingly, "we will go home next week."

"Oh, that will be too bad, and the dance is to be two weeks from tomorrow, in the afternoon, in a hall. It will be splendid!"

"I suppose this is the little cousin who came after the fortune," said Willis, "isn't it nice to have a fortune left to you?"

"I hardly know"—hesitatingly.

"Oh my! I'd know quick enough," laughed the boy. "Isabel wouldn't it be fine enough to have ten or twelve thousand left to us? I'd be sure of going to college."

"The University ought to be good enough for city boys," said Uncle Warren.

They played authors for a while "because they could talk" Willis said. Then Aunt Warren played for them to dance. At first Marilla hesitated.

"Oh, it's only three-step" exclaimed Edith. "I'll show you, and if you danced at the King's ball——"

She found she could dance easy enough. It was quite delightful. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks like roses.

Then they tried several other pretty dances, and spiced them with much laughter. Oh, how gay they were.

"Who was it said something about the King's ball?" asked Willis. "Was it a make believe?"

"Oh it is the prettiest thing!" replied Edith.

"You see, Cousin Marilla sat alone in the kitchen one night when the maid had gone out and a fairy godmother came and asked her if she didn't want to go to the ball. Finding her in the kitchen you see she took her for Cinderella, and she touched her with her wand—now Marilla, go on, I couldn't tell it half as delightfully as you do; you make it so real."

Manila's face had been scarlet at first, for she was almost ashamed of being a little bound-out girl before these newcomers, but Edith had started it so beautifully that she smiled at her audience.

"Let's sit on the floor," said Willis. "That's the way they do in Persia, and Aunt Grace never finds fault with us."

They gathered around the little girl. Even Uncle Warren laid down his paper and joined the circle. And what an attentive audience!

"Well that's just fine!" ejaculated Willis. "I've never seen just such a Cinderella, and there wasn't any glass slipper?"

"Don't interrupt," said his sister.

It was all so vivid and Marilla made such pretty gestures with her hands and swayed her head to and fro, that they could fairly see the palace, and the banquet was superb with its lights and flowers and beautiful adornments.

"And couldn't they dance but just one evening with the Prince? That was rather tough."

"But there was so many knights and the Cinderellas seemed just as happy. No one was cross."

"Well, that was wonderful! Oh, didn't you hate to wake up?"

"I don't believe I did really wake up, and every night for awhile I seemed dreaming it over, and I can shut my eyes and see it so plainly. When things didn't go quite right it was such a pleasure."

"Oh, you're a darling!" cried Isabel. "I just wish the kindergarten children could hear it told that way. If you were a grown-up girl they'd pay you for telling stories."

"Aunt Grace can't you bring her around and let mother hear that?" asked Willis. "My mother is so fat she hates to go out anywhere," to Marilla. "She thinks it disgraceful! But she's a sweet mother for all that; and now we must go home. Thank you a hundred times for the story. When I have my party I shall send for you and dance with you every other time. You ought to be named Cinderella."

She looked so bright and happy and promised to visit them if Dr. Richards did not take her home too soon.

But the Hippodrome was beyond any dream. Sometimes she held her breath with delight until she was fairly tired. Dr. Richards watched the sweet, changeful face. Yes, she should be all his—why he had never dreamed of anything half as sweet as the joy of a father.

Sunday afternoon he and Mr. Lorimer came in. The girls had gone to Sunday School. He laid his plan before the Warrens who were a good deal surprised.

"As a man grows older he begins to think of a home and the joys nothing else offers, and a doctor really needs the comfort, the satisfaction nothing else can give. I've never had a home though I've dreamed of one, but there must be another person in it. I'm not of the hermit sort. I want some one to be merry with me and to comfort me when the skies are dark and lowering."

"Oh, Dr. Richards, you should marry," exclaimed Mrs. Warren, impetuously.

"I've been so engrossed—and this sort of vision has come to my very door as it were, and I have let it in. For a few years Marilla will need watchful care from some one who can understand the weak points. I should get a nice, motherly woman who would be sweet and tender to her, companionable as well. For you see she must go to some one for a home."

"And we would gladly take her in here," said Mrs. Warren. "She has really won our hearts."

He would do Miss Armitage full justice, at least he thought it so then. He related her kindness, her generosity, but she had been tender and sympathetic to many another child he remembered, yet he could not quite still the one cry he had heard from her.

"Thank you most sincerely," he returned. "I am glad she has found some relatives who have taken her in in this cordial manner. I want her to remain warm friends with you all. Of course until I was settled to my liking her home would be with Miss Armitage and she could come whenever you would like to have her. A young girl needs friends of her own kind, whose interests and hopes are similar."

They discussed the matter from more than one point of view. At first Lorimer had tried to banter him out of the plan, insisting that the guardianship would be sufficient. There was something in his earnest desire that touched the heart of the man of wide experience. He wondered why he could not be as persistent to win the lady! Perhaps she would follow the child.

She came in radiant and full of joy. It was such a splendid Sunday School. She could enjoy it thoroughly with no bothering Jack to think about.

Lorimer made his adieu but the doctor remained. They sang in the evening. She caught any tune so readily, and a little bird of joy kept time in her heart. She had only to glance up in the doctor's eyes to know there was a kindred delight in his.

She spent most of the next morning writing to fairy godmother. There was so much to say, for everything was so new, so different from her life hitherto. Oh, she was so glad she did not have to go back to that! No one had been really unkind or severe with her and she could recall some tenderness at the last on Aunt Hetty's part, but the death always made her shudder.

These days of affliction had been so sweet, so engrossing. She had not dared to love Miss Armitage in this fashion in the beginning. She loved her deeply, truly, now, and her heart smote her in spite of the thrill of joy when she thought of Dr. Richard's love, of belonging to him. Would she leave her for the new love? She had not the courage to mention it, but there were so many other things to say.

Every day brought something new. They went to the wonderful museum. She could not take in half, but Dr. Richards said no one could. You came time and again, all your life, and always found something new. And there were the Historical Society rooms with their marvellous collection of birds that enchanted her.

They spent a delightful evening at the Firths, though she decided she liked Uncle Warren the better. The Firth house was very handsomely appointed, but it did not have so much the air of home where you could sit on the arm of the chair and say all manner of childish things.

Mrs. Firth was very stout, but she had a really pretty face and a voice that won you with a certain caressing mellowness. Both cheeks had a deep dimple and a crease went from one to the other that seemed to define the first chin. She sat in a high backed chair and Marilla thought she looked like a princess, and her gown made the child think of the beautiful dresses in the fairy place.

But on Friday Dr. Richards said they must go back to Newton. They would come again however, there was still a little business to settle. It was a sad parting, and when Marilla took her seat in the train she turned her face to the window and surreptitiously wiped away the tears, though she longed to see fairy godmother.

The hack whirled them to Loraine place. The great trees stood like sentinels stretching out their bare limbs. The beautiful autumn, had gone, you noted it more here. Up the stoop—how her heart beat, and yet somehow she seemed as if she had lived another lifetime.

"Oh dear, dear Marilla," cried Jane with the warmest embrace. "We have missed you so much, and are so glad to get you back. Why it hasn't seemed the same house, and everybody has wanted you. Dr. Richards, that Mrs. McCormick died this morning and Miss Armitage was there until noon. Five little children left, think of it, she came home and went straight to bed, but she's had a cup of tea and will be down in a few minutes."

They entered the parlor. Marilla took off her hat and coat, it was so warm indoors. She had on a new frock, a curious blue that was very becoming. Her cheeks were a lovely pink, her eyes full of expectancy.

Miss Armitage came down the back stairway and through the library. Marilla gave one cry and was in her arms.

No one had won her away, then. During these days she had had many thoughts about the child's future. She had felt jealous of the new found relatives and their love, of Dr. Richards' devotion, of the happy times when she had been counted out. Work had failed to inspire, evenings had been lonely, dreary. Oh, she would never let her go away again unless she went with her. She would beseech the law to make the child hers—

"Oh, fairy godmother!" The charming, joyous tone that showed the child's certainty of a warm welcome. "It has all been so lovely, but I wanted you so. I wanted you to see the girls and their father who is the loveliest, no not quite the loveliest," and her eyes shone with a tender radiance, the flush made her beautiful. "For, fairy godmother, I have a father now who will love me and care for me, and I am filled to the brim with happiness—it is better than the fortune. I could hardly wait to tell you. Oh, please be glad for my sake."

"A father?" she repeated, in a breathless tremulous sort of way.

"Yes," said Dr. Richards, and there was a strange sort of assurance in his tone. He seemed to have changed mysteriously—there is a vigor, a power and withal a sweet satisfaction in his face that gives her a pang she does not understand.

"Yes," he repeated. "The fortune is all right. I have been made her guardian, but that did not satisfy me. I have taken out papers of adoption, she is my child, my little little daughter and she has a new, legal, lawful name—Marilla Cinderella Richards."

"Oh, oh!" The pathetic cry unnerved him.

"Dear fairy godmother it can't make any difference in my love for you. I loved you first, you know. I shall always love you, but I want us to live together and be as happy as they are at the Warrens, and I love him, my new father, so much. When you have something of your very own it fills you everywhere like beautiful music. I've been learning how sweet and dear it can be. Oh, fairy godmother, I want you both. It would break my heart to lose either of you. Oh, fairy godmother, can't you love him; can't you, won't you marry him and let us all live together?"

There was a penetrating sweetness in the pleading, but she saw the red of surprise mount to the very edge of the man's hair, and almost a frown settle between the eyes. Her face dropped to the silken soft head and she felt the child's heart beat tumultuously. To make the two who loved her happy—to have them for her own——

She reached out her hand—it was her right hand. He caught it and pressed it to his lips with a fervor that thrilled every pulse of her being.

It was not the tie of kindred blood, but that divine immortal kindred of love, and as he clasped his arms about them both they were Father, Mother and Child.

And so, Marilla had not only the Fairy Godmother, but the Prince as well.

THE END