king a squeaking noise like a hungry weasel, and scaring the poor
little moles almost to death. Oh, I could tell you lots of dreadful
things about the wicked fairy if I wanted to. His name was Nettlesting,
and his father and mother were both dead, and he lived all alone with
his grandmother, who simply spoiled him! And--'and that's all there is.
How do you like it?"

"Bully," said Wade. "What's the rest of it?"

"I don't know. That's as far as I've got. I suppose, though, that the
wicked fairy tried to oust the Princess from the Blue Palace, and there
were perfectly scandalous doings in Fairyland."

"I hope you'll finish it," said Wade. "I rather like Nettlesting."

"Oh, but you mustn't! The moral is that fairies who don't get up to
breakfast when they're called always come to some bad end. You must
like the Princess and think the wicked fairy quite detestable."

"Can't help it," Wade replied, apologetically. "The wicked fairy had a
sense of humor and I like him. That chasing the moles around and
squeaking like a weasel appeals to me. I'll bet that's just what I'd do
if I were a fairy!"

"I know," said Eve, nodding her head sympathetically. "I'm ashamed to
say it, but I always like the wicked fairies, too. It's dreadfully hard
sometimes for me to give them their deserts. I'm afraid I don't make
them mean enough. What is your idea of a thoroughly depraved fairy, Mr.
Herrick?"

Wade frowned a moment, thinking deeply.

"Well," he said finally, "you might have him go around and upset the
bird-nests and spill the little birds out. How would that do?"

"Beautifully! Oh, he _would_ be wicked; even I couldn't like a fairy who
did that. Thank you ever so much, Mr. Herrick; I would never have
thought of that myself. What a beautifully wicked imagination you must
have! I'll make Nettlesting do that very thing."

"No, don't change him, please; I like him the way he is. When will that
story he published?"

"Oh, I may never finish it, and, if I do, it may never be accepted."

Wade pondered a minute. Then--"Of course, you know it's perfect
nonsense," he charged.

"My story? Isn't that a little cruel, Mr. Herrick?"

"I don't mean your story. I mean the idea of you having to write things
to make a living when--when there's all that money that really belongs
to you. I wish, Miss Walton, you'd look at it sensibly."

"Mr. Herrick, you're not flattering any more."

"Can't help it," answered Wade, doggedly. "You ought to c