My father stirred in his chair. He lit a cigar. It went out. He lit it again. It went out again. He jerked his shoulders. He looked nervous. He talked about things that n.o.body was talking about at all.

"The young rascal dropped a hundred-dollar bill--when he was here before!" he said. He said it as tho it was something very wicked.

Young Derry Willard's father seemed perfectly cheerful.

"Did he really?" he said.

"It's a wonder the crow didn't eat it!" snapped my father.

"But even the crow wouldn't eat it, eh?" said Derry Willard's father.

Quite suddenly he began to laugh again. He looked at my mother. He stopped laughing. His voice was very gentle. "Don't be--proud," he said.

"Don't ever be proud." He threw out his hand as tho he was asking something. "What difference does anything make--in the whole world," he said, "except just young love--and old friendship?"

"Oh, pshaw," said father. "Oh, pshaw!"

Rosalee came and stood in the door. She looked only at mother. She had on a red coat. And a red hat. And red mittens.

"Derry Willard wants to see the Christmas-tree garden," she said. "May I go?"

Derry Willard stood just behind her. He had on his fur coat. He looked very hard at father. When he spoke he spoke only to father.

"Is it all right?" he said. "May _I_ go?"

My father looked up. And then he looked down. He looked at Derry Willard's father. He threw out his hands as tho there was no place left to look. A little smile crept into one corner of his mouth. He tried to bite it. He couldn't.

"Oh--_pshaw_!" he said.

Carol and I went out to play. We thought we'd like to see the Christmas-tree garden too. The snow was almost as deep as our heads. All the evergreen trees were weighed down with snow. Their branches dragged on the ground. It was like walking through white plumes.

We found mother's Christmas-tree garden. We found Rosalee and young Derry Willard standing right in the middle of it. It was all caves and castles! It was like a whole magic little city all made out of white plumes! The sun came out and shone on it! Blue sky opened overhead!

Everything crackled! It was more beautiful even than the Christmas tree in the parlor.

They didn't hear us.

Rosalee gave a funny little cry. It was like a sob. Only happy.

"I love _Christmas_!" she said.

"I love _you_!" said Derry Willard.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed her in his arms and kissed her.

A great pine-tree shivered all its snow down on them like a veil.

We heard them laugh.

We ran back to the house. We ran just as fast as we could. It almost burst our lungs. We ran into the parlor. I didn't tell. Carol couldn't tell.

My father and young Derry Willard's father were talking and talking behind great clouds of smoke. The Yule log was blazing and sputtering all sorts of fireworks and colors. Only mother was watching it. She was paring apples as she watched. A little smile was in her eyes.

"What a wonderful--wonderful day to have it happen!" she said.

I couldn't stand it any longer. I ran upstairs and got my best story-book. I brought it down and opened it at the picture of the Fairy Prince. I laid it open like that in Mr. Willard's lap. I pointed at the picture.

"_There!_" I said.

Derry Willard's father put on his gla.s.ses and looked at the picture.

"Well, upon my soul," he said, "where did you get that?"

"It's my book," I said. "It's always been my book."

My father looked at the picture.

"Why, of all things," he said.

"Why, it looks exactly like Derry!" said my mother.

"It _is_ Derry!" said Derry's father. "But don't ever let Derry know that you know that it is! It seems to tease him a little. It seems to tease him a very great deal in fact. Being all rigged out like that. The ill.u.s.trator is a friend of mine. He spent the Winter in Cuba three or four years ago. And he painted the picture there."

I looked at Carol. Carol looked at me. It was an absolutely perfect Christmas! If _this_ were true, then everything beautiful that there was in the world was true, too! Carol nudged me to speak.

"Then Derry really _is_ a Fairy Prince?" I said.

Father started to speak.

Mother stopped him.

"Yes! Rosalee's Fairy Prince!" she said.

THE GAME OF THE BE-WITCHMENTS

We like our Aunt Esta very much because she doesn't like us.

That is--she doesn't like us specially. _Toys_ are what our Aunt Esta likes specially. Our Aunt Esta invents toys. She invents them for a store in New York. Our Aunt Esta is thirty years old with very serious hair. I don't know how old our other relatives are--except Rosalee! And Carol! And myself!

My sister Rosalee is seventeen years old. And a Betrothess. Her Betrother lives in Cuba. He eats bananas. My brother Carol is eleven. He has no voice in his throat. But he eats anything. I myself am only nine.

But with very long legs. Our Father and Mother have no age. They are just tall.

There was a man. He was very rich. He had a little girl with sick bones. She had to sit in a wheel chair all day long and be pushed around by a Black Woman. He asked our Aunt Esta to invent a Game for her. The little girl's name was Posie.

Our Aunt Esta invented a Game. She called it the Game of the Be-Witchments. It cost two hundred dollars and forty-three cents. The Rich Man didn't seem to mind the two hundred dollars. But he couldn't bear the forty-three cents. He'd bear even that, though, he said, if it would only be sure to work!

"_Work?_" said our Aunt Esta. "Why _of course_ it will work!" So just the first minute she got it invented she jammed it into her trunk and dashed up to our house to see if it would!