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 glasses 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
illustrator 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 as