nger little, by the way--had chosen for her
years ago suited her exactly. Lightly as a fairy she tripped and flitted
about, bright as a sunbeam, as though no such thing as care or sorrow
existed in the world. Dainty in all her ways, neat and trim in her
dress, with tiny hands and feet, a better name than Fairy could not have
been given her. She was dressed in a pink print, simply yet well-made,
and altogether the child looked out of keeping with her surroundings,
particularly with her foster brother, Charlie, in his corduroys and his
swill-pail by his side.

"You dreadful boy, take that horrid pail away before I come a step
further," cried Fairy, pinching her little nose with her delicate white
taper fingers.

"All right, but do show us that fine thing you have in your hand first,"
said Charlie.

"No, no, no; go to your pigs first, you'll spoil my lovely present for
Jack if you come near me," said Fairy, hiding her hands behind her, and
running backwards to avoid any chance of a collision with Charlie and
his pail as he prepared to obey her commands.

"What is it, Fairy?" asked Mrs. Shelley, as Charlie moved off, looking
up with curiosity from her work.

"It is a shaving-case I have been making for Jack out of that quilt of
mine you said I might have, mother," replied Fairy, holding out an
elaborate shaving-case, beautifully quilted in blue satin.

"A shaving-case? But, my dear Fairy, Jack does not shave. How could you
cut that lovely thing up in this way?" said Mrs. Shelley.

"A shaving-case! What is the use of it if he did shave?" asked Willie,
who was of a practical turn of mind.

"The use of it! Why, to keep his shaving-cloths in, of course. Mr.
Leslie has one something like this, only not half so pretty," said
Fairy, eyeing her handiwork with admiration.

"It is much too good for Jack," said Charlie, who had come back from his
pigs.

"Nothing is too good for Jack, is it, mother?" asked Fairy, with an
imperceptible nod at Willie.

"It is very unsuitable, Fairy, and I think it is a pity you cut up that
quilt for it; but come and help me to finish this smock, you idle child,
do."

"That dreadful smock! and I know Jack will never, never, never put it
on, though we have pricked our fingers over it for weeks. And John will
be angry, and insist, and Jack will be in a passion, and refuse, and
instead of having a nice happy birthday, poor old Jack will be
miserable. Mother, let's give him the smock to-night,