"Here she is, Bill; this is the fairy," he said, in quite an altered tone, as he went to the bed, and took one of his sister's thin hands in both of his. "Ziza, this is the feller I told ye of, as wanted to see you, dear; b'longs to Mr Tippet."

Ziza smiled faintly, as she extended her hand to Willie, who took it and pressed it gently.

Willie felt a wonderfully strong sensation within his heart as he looked into the sufferer's large liquid eyes; and for a few seconds he could not speak. Suddenly he exclaimed, "Well, you ain't one bit like what I expected to see. You're more like a angel than a fairy."

Ziza smiled again, and said she didn't feel like either the one or the other.

"My poor lamb," said the clown, sitting down on the bed, and parting the dark hair on Ziza's forehead, with a hand as gentle as that of a mother, "we're goin' now. Time's up. Shall I ask Mrs Smith to stay with you again, till we come back?"

"Oh, no, no!" cried the child hurriedly, and squeezing her fingers into her eyes, as if to shut out some disagreeable object. "Not Mrs Smith.

I'd rather be alone."

"I _wish_ I could stay with you, Ziza," said Jim earnestly.

"It's of no use wishin', Jim," said his father, "you can't get off a single night. If you was to fail 'em you'd lose your engagement, and we can't afford that just at this time, you know; but I'll try to get Mrs James to come. She's a good woman, I know, and--"

"Mister Cattley," interrupted Willie, "if you'll allow a partic'larly humble individual to make a observation, I would say there's nothin' in life to prevent me from keeping this 'ere fairy company till you come back. I've nothin' particular to do as I knows on, an' I'm raither fond of lonely meditation; so if the fairy wants to go to sleep, it'll make no odds to me, so long's it pleases her."

"Thankee, lad," said the clown; "but you'll git wearied, I fear, for we won't be home till mornin'--"

"Ah!" interrupted Willie, "till daylight does appear. But that's no odds, neither--'cause I'm not married yet, so there's n.o.body awaitin'

for me--and" (he winked to Jim at this point) "my mother knows I'm out."

The clown grinned at this. "You'd make one of _us_, youngster," said he, "if ye can jump. Howsever, I'm obliged by your offer, so you can stay if Ziza would like it."

Ziza said she _would_ like it with such goodwill, that Willie adored her from that moment, and vowed in his heart he would nurse her till she--he did not like to finish the sentence; yet, somehow, the little that he had heard and seen of the child led him irresistibly to the conclusion that she was dying.

This having been satisfactorily arranged, the Cattleys, senior and junior, threw cloaks round them, exchanged their wigs for caps; and, regardless of the absurd appearance of their faces, hurried out to one of the minor theatres, with heavy hearts because of the little fairy left so ill and comfortless at home.

In a few minutes they were tumbling on the stage, cracking their jokes, and convulsing the house with laughter.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

WILLIE IN A NEW LIGHT.

Left alone with the fairy, Willie Willders began his duties as sick-nurse, a sphere of action into which he had never thought of being introduced, even in his wildest dreams.

He began by asking the fairy if she was all right and comfortable, to which she replied that she was not; upon which he explained that he meant, was she as right and comfortable as could be expected in the circ.u.mstances; could he do anything for her, in fact, or get her anything that would make her more comfortable than she was--but the fairy shook her poor head and said, "No."

"Come now, won't you have somethin' to eat? What had you for dinner?"

said Willie, in a cheery voice, looking round the room, but not discovering any symptoms of food beyond a few empty plates and cups (the latter without handles), and a tea-pot with half a spout.

"I had a little bread and b.u.t.ter," said the fairy.

"No tipple?" inquired the nurse.

"No, except water."

"Ain't there none in the house?"

"No."

"D'ye git nothin' better at other times?" inquired Willie in surprise.

"Not often. Father is very poor. He was ill for a long time, too, and if it hadn't been for your kind master I think we should all have starved. He's better now, but he needs pretty good living to keep him up to his work--for there's a deal of training to be done, and it wears him out if he don't get meat. But the pantomimes began and we were getting on better, when the fire came and burnt everything we had almost, so we can't afford much meat or beer, and I don't like beer, so I've got them persuaded to let me live on bread and b.u.t.ter and water. I would like tea better, because it's hot, but we can't afford that."

Here was a revelation! The fairy lived upon bread and b.u.t.ter and water!

Willie thought that, but for the interpolation of the b.u.t.ter, it would have borne marvellous resemblance to prison fare.

"When had you dinner?" inquired Willie suddenly.

"I think about four o'clock."

"An' can't you eat nothin' now?"

Again the fairy shook her head.

"Nor drink?"

"Look if there's anything in the tea-pot," said the fairy.

Willie looked, shook his head, and said, "Not a drop."

"Any leaves?"

"Why, y-yes," he brought the pot nearer to the candle; "there are a few used-up ones."

"Oh, _do_ pour some hot water into it; but I fear the water is cold, and the fire's too low to boil it, and I know the coals are done; but father gets paid his salary to-morrow, and he'll give me some tea then. He's very kind to me, father is, and so is Jim."

She sighed as she spoke, and shut her eyes.

"Ziza," said Willie in a careless tone, "you won't object to my leavin'

you for a few minutes; only a few; I want to get a little fresh air, an'

see what sort of a night it is; I won't be long gone."

Ziza, so far from objecting, said that she was used to being left alone for long, long hours at a time, and wouldn't mind it. So Willie put the candle nearer to her bedside, placed a tea-cup of water within reach, went out, shut the door softly behind him, groped his way through the pa.s.sage and up the stair, and got into the street.

That day his eccentric employer had paid him his first month's wage, a sovereign, with many complimentary remarks as to his usefulness. The golden coin lay in his pocket. It was the first he had ever earned. He had intended to go straight home and lay the shining piece in his mother's lap, for Willie was a peculiar boy, and had some strange notions in regard to the destination of "first-fruits." Where he had got them n.o.body could tell. Perhaps his mother knew, but n.o.body ever questioned her upon the point.

Taking this gold piece from his pocket, he ran into the nearest respectable street, and selected there the most respectable grocer's shop, into which he entered, and demanded a pound of the shopman's best tea, a pound of his best sugar, a pound of his best b.u.t.ter, a cut of his best bacon, and one of his best wax-candles. Willie knew nothing about relative proportion in regard to such things; he only knew that they were usually bought and consumed together.

The shopman looked at the little purchaser in surprise, but as Willie emphatically repeated his demands he gave him the required articles. On receiving the sovereign he looked twice at Willie, rung the piece of money three times on the counter, and then returned the change.

Gathering the packages in his arms, and putting the candle between his vest and bosom, he went into a baker's shop, purchased a loaf, and returned to the "subterraneous grotto" laden like the bee. To say that the fairy was surprised when he displayed these things, would be a feeble use of language. She opened her large eyes until Willie begged her in alarm not to open them wider for fear they should come out, at which sally she laughed, and then, being weak, she cried.

After that she fell in with her nurse's humour, and the two proceeded to "have a night of it." Ziza said she'd be a real fairy and tell him what to do, and Willie said he'd be a gnome or a he-fairy and do it.