Kisington Town Part 11

But the baby struggled down from her mother's arms and ran after him crying,--"No, no! Do not go away, dear, beautiful Fairy! Mother! Father!

It is the friend whom we all love. I have heard you praise him. Do not send him away."

"The Fairy!" cried the father, running to capture her.

"It is no Fairy, child!" said the mother. "It is one of the ugly, wicked Gnomes who do only evil. Let him go!"

But the child struggled and shrieked. "He shall not go! It is the beautiful Fairy who helps us. I have watched him doing all the kind things you say the Fairy does, and I love him dearly. He shall not go!"

The father and mother looked at each other, then at the shrinking Gnome.

"Is this true?" they demanded, "or is this some wicked Gnome-trick which has bewitched our child?"

The Old Gnome bowed meekly. "Alas! I am no Fairy, as I fain would be,"

he confessed. "But I loved to hear you call me so. I am a Gnome; but I have done no evil, only good, so far as my skill went. The happy days are over now. The child knows the truth. No one will ever again think me beautiful or good. I had forgotten how old I was; I had almost grown to feel young again in the merry, busy days of service. But now the time has come indeed for me to lie down in the long sleep. I will go away and find a new cell, and curl me up in a happy dream which will last forever."

Once more he turned to go. The father and mother were silent.

But the baby burst into violent weeping. "Oh, he is beautiful, beautiful, the kind, dear Fairy! Do you not see how beautiful he is, Mother, Father?" she cried.

The Old Gnome turned and looked at her, smiling sadly and shaking his head with a tender light in his eyes. "No, no!" he said, "not beautiful; only loving!"

"But yes!" cried the mother, staring amazedly. "Think, David, of all he has done for us. He does, he does look beautiful to me!"

David stared also. "From the day my foot was wounded," he said, "only good has befallen me here. And if he has done it, the kind little fellow!--Yes, yes! He does, indeed, look beautiful to me!"

"Ah!" cried the child, laughing and clapping her hands. "I was right! I knew he was our kind Fairy, all the time. If he is good, he is no Gnome.

It is only a name. If he seems beautiful to us, then he is beautiful, indeed. He is a Fairy! He shall live here with us and we will love him forever."

And lo, as she spoke, the Old Gnome looked wonderingly down at his body.

He seemed to have changed. He was no longer crooked and old, but light and airy and beautiful. Over his head arched gauzy wings and his dress sparkled like dew. Also he felt young and full of power to do things he had never done before.

"I believe I am a Fairy!" he cried joyously. "And I may live and love and serve forever, and never be tired or sleepy!"

So it fell out as they all wished. And the hermit's cell became a Fairy palace.

XIII: HAROLD'S LUNCHEON

When Harold finished reading the story of the Hermit Gnome to the Red King, he looked up to see how his listener had enjoyed the tale. And lo and behold! Red Rex was fast asleep! He lay on his back in the afternoon sunshine, and a noise came from his half-open mouth rather like the _Gr-r!_ of the lion-doll, when its tail was screwed.

"Well!" said Harold to himself; "I cannot return to the city until His Majesty wakes up; for that would not be polite, and his bodyguard would not allow it. I may as well make myself comfortable and be patient. The longer he sleeps the longer time we shall have in safety to wait for help from our King."

Harold opened the little covered basket to replace the green-and-gold volume from which he had just been reading, and in doing so caught sight of the luncheon which his thoughtful mother had packed, in the fear that he might be hungry ere his return. He took out the folded napkin and peered eagerly below. There was a huge wedge of apple pie! Harold licked his lips and his eyes sparkled, for there was nothing of which he was so fond as apple pie. "I must have at least a bite this minute!" he said to himself, and opening his mouth very wide he prepared to bite into the juicy wedge.

Just at this moment Red Rex opened his eyes.

"Pitikins!" he cried, "what is going on? Is this part of the story?" For at first he did not know that he had been asleep.

"No, Your Majesty," said Harold; "it is a piece of one of my mother's famous pies. Will you share it with me?"

"That I will!" said Red Rex, sitting upright and stretching out his hand eagerly. "It looks like apple pie. There is nothing in the world I like so well as apple pie."

"Your taste is the same as mine," said Harold merrily, carving the wedge with his knife into two equal triangles. "I believe Your Majesty never tasted better pie than that. It is made by a famous rule."

Red Rex munched his share greedily, sitting opposite the munching Harold. And as they ate they eyed one another, not unfriendly. When he had finished, the Red King said,--"By my sword! That is the best piece of apple pie that ever I tasted, or hope to taste! Your mother must be a wondrous cook, Harold."

"That she is!" cried the proud boy. "And she is the best mother who ever lived. She made six of these wonderful pies for me, because she knows that I like them so much. I saw them this morning on a shelf in the pantry."

"Six juicy apple pies!" murmured Red Rex, smacking his lips at the thought. "Where do you live, boy?"

"I live on the High Street, which leads from the market-place, in a little house next the butcher's shop," said Harold, wondering why the King asked.

"I will remember that," said Red Rex, nodding his head solemnly. "I owe your mother a happy memory for that piece of delicious pie."

"It is made from the recipe for the King's Pie," said Harold. "No wonder you approve it, being like His Hungry Majesty of old."

"The King's Pie!" exclaimed the surprised monarch. "Pray, what do you mean by that?"

"It is another story, Your Majesty," said Harold, grinning. "I think it is the best story of all. But I suppose you would not care to hear it to-morrow."

"Oh, go along with you and your stories, you young beguiler!" cried Red Rex with a great roar, at the same time poking Harold playfully with the point of his sword. "I see that you would keep me here forever at the walls of your city, listening to your tales."

"Not forever," said Harold, with an air of candor. "I do not think that even the library of Kisington could furnish new books for as long a time as that,--though, to be sure, you might hear some of the same ones over again. But, indeed, you have no idea what treasures still remain in that casket! This tale of the King's Pie is one of the rarest, I think."

Red Rex seemed to be thinking very earnestly about something. "The King's Pie," he murmured, more than once. "H'm! H'm! It is of a deliciousness! Ha! Ho!" And he smacked his lips again, thinking of the tantalizing wedge which was now no more. Suddenly he spoke: "I have decided to wait yet another day," he announced. "I will hear that tale to-morrow. And if it contains a recipe for the famous pie, I shall want you to copy it off for me. Bring pen and paper, my lad."

"That I will!" said Harold joyously. For this meant still another day's delay; and the time was now near at hand when they might expect to see help coming from the Capital City where their good King Victor lived.

This was Wednesday, when he took leave of the Red King.

XIV: THE ROBBER

Harold was very weary when he returned to the cottage that evening; and he was still more weary before he tumbled into bed. For in the mean time he had to learn his school lessons for the following day, and tell the other boys all about his adventures. He slept like a top; quite like a top,--for sometimes during the night there came from his little room beyond the kitchen a sound like a humming top.

It was about midnight when Harold was awakened by a peculiar noise. It was a queer, clicking, tapping noise that seemed to come from the kitchen close by. Harold sat up in bed and listened. Some one was certainly moving about in the kitchen. It was probably his mother, he thought. And yet, what could his mother be doing there at that time of night? Stealthy steps crossed the kitchen; just then Harold sneezed,--he could not help it. There was silence.

Presently he heard a noise in the pantry, which was next his own little room. Harold rose and crept noiselessly out of his chamber. Yes, there was someone in the pantry. The door was open,--something not allowed in his mother's kitchen rule. An uncertain light flickered behind the pantry door. Harold could not see plainly, but there certainly was some one meddling with the dishes on the shelves. Suddenly a silhouette came between Harold and the light, and he saw the shape of the intruder. It seemed to be a very tall old woman in bonnet and shawl, and her great hand was carrying something from the pantry shelf to the mouth within the bonnet.

Harold felt himself growing very angry. Who was this stranger who dared to force a way into their cottage and eat up the hard-earned victuals which his mother had painfully prepared? Such doings were rare indeed in Kisington. It was a wicked thief, a robber, a house-breaker! Even though it was a woman, she must be punished.

There was a key in the lock outside the pantry door. Quick as a flash Harold made a leap for it, and turned it in the lock. At the same time he shouted to his mother who slept in the room upstairs,--"Quick! Quick, Mother! There is an old woman in the pantry eating up the food! I have caught her at it!"

In a few minutes his mother's feet came pattering down the stairs. But in the mean time what a hubbub was going on in the pantry! Evidently the thief had no mind to be discovered and taken in her criminal act. There was the sound of overturned boxes and barrels, the crash of crockery and gla.s.s. The thief was smashing the pantry window!

"Open the door, Harold!" screamed his mother. "She is climbing out the window!"

It did not seem possible that the thief could do this, it was such a tiny window. But, sure enough! when the door was opened, and Harold and his mother crowded into the pantry, they were but just in time to seize the hem of the old woman's shawl, as her last leg squeezed through the cas.e.m.e.nt. Harold held on to the shawl tightly, however, and off it came in his hands. It was a very nice shawl.