"If you look at the white petals you'll see that they sparkle like marble,and go winding a long way down to the middle of the flower where it grows sort of rosy;and in among the small,curly leaves,like fringed curtains,you can see the little green fairy sitting all alone.Your mother showed me that,and I think it is very pretty.I call it a 'fairy,'but it is really where the seeds are hidden and the sweet smell comes from."Jill spoke softly lest she should disturb the others,and,as she turned to push up her pillow,she saw Mrs.Minot looking at her with a smile she did not understand.
"Did you speak,'m?"she asked,smiling back again,without in the least knowing why.
"No,dear.I was listening and thinking what a pretty little story one could make out of your fairy living alone down there,and only known by her perfume.""Tell it,Mamma.It is time for our story,and that would be a nice one,I guess,"said Jack,who was as fond of stories as when he sat in his mother's lap and chuckled over the hero of the beanstalk.
'We don't have fairy tales on Sunday,you know,"began Jill regretfully.
"Call it a parable,and have a moral to it,then it will be all right,"put in Frank,as he shut his big book,having found what he wanted.
"I like stories about saints,and the good and wonderful things they did,"said Jill,who enjoyed the wise and interesting bits Mrs.
Minot often found for her in grown-up books,for Jill had thoughtful times,and asked questions which showed that she was growing fast in mind if not in body.
"This is a true story;but I will disguise it a little,and call it 'The Miracle of Saint Lucy,"began Mrs.Minot,seeing a way to tell her good news and amuse the children likewise.
Frank retired to the easy-chair,that he might sleep if the tale should prove too childish for him.Jill settled herself among her cushions,and Jack lay flat upon the rug,with his feet up,so that he could admire his red slippers and rest his knee,which ached.
"Once upon a time there was a queen who had two princes.""Wasn't there a princess?"asked Jack,interested at once.
"No;and it was a great sorrow to the queen that she had no little daughter,for the sons were growing up,and she was often very lonely.
"Like Snowdrop's mother,"whispered Jill.
"Now,don't keep interrupting,children,or we never shall get on,"said Frank,more anxious to hear about the boys that were than the girl that was not.
"One day,when the princes were out--ahem!we'll say hunting--they found a little damsel lying on the snow,half dead with cold,they thought.She was the child of a poor woman who lived in the forest--a wild little thing,always dancing and singing about;as hard to catch as a squirrel,and so fearless she would climb the highest trees,leap broad brooks,or jump off the steep rocks to show her courage.The boys carried her home to the palace,and the queen was glad to have her.She had fallen and hurt herself,so she lay in bed week after week,with her mother to take care of her--""That's you,"whispered Jack,throwing the white carnation at Jill,and she threw back the red one,with her finger on her lips,for the tale was very interesting now.
"She did not suffer much after a time,but she scolded and cried,and could not be resigned,because she was a prisoner.The queen tried to help her,but she could not do much;the princes were kind,but they had their books and plays,and were away a good deal.
Some friends she had came often to see her,but still she beat her wings against the bars,like a wild bird in a cage,and soon her spirits were all gone,and it was sad to see her.""Where was your Saint Lucy?I thought it was about her,asked Jack,who did not like to have Jill's past troubles dwelt upon,since his were not.
"She is coming.Saints are not born--they are made after many trials and tribulations,"answered his mother,looking at the fire as if it helped her to spin her little story."Well,the poor child used to sing sometimes to while away the long hours--sad songs mostly,and one among them which the queen taught her was 'Sweet Patience,Come.'
"This she used to sing a great deal after a while,never dreaming that Patience was an angel who could hear and obey.But it was so;and one night,when the girl had lulled herself to sleep with that song,the angel came.Nobody saw the lovely spirit with tender eyes,and a voice that was like balm.No one heard the rustle of wings as she hovered over the little bed and touched the lips,the eyes,the hands of the sleeper,and then flew away,leaving three gifts behind.The girl did not know why,but after that night the songs grew gayer,there seemed to be more sunshine everywhere her eyes looked,and her hands were never tired of helping others in various pretty,useful,or pleasant ways.Slowly the wild bird ceased to beat against the bars,but sat in its cage and made music for all in the palace,till the queen could not do without it,the poor mother cheered up,and the princes called the girl their nightingale.""Was that the miracle?"asked Jack,forgetting all about his slippers,as he watched Jill's eyes brighten and the color come up in her white cheeks.
"That was the miracle,and Patience can work far greater ones if you will let her.""And the girl's name was Lucy?"
"Yes;they did not call her a saint then,but she was trying to be as cheerful as a certain good woman she had heard of,and so the queen had that name for her,though she did not let her know it for a long time.""That's not bad for a Sunday story,but there might have been more about the princes,seems to me,"was Frank's criticism,as Jill lay very still,trying to hide her face behind the carnation,for she had no words to tell how touched and pleased she was to find that her little efforts to be good had been seen,remembered,and now rewarded in this way.
There is more.
"Then the story isn't done?"cried Jack.