'

'Oh dear!' was the answer. 'Now, do you know what I do to prove little
girls are awake?'

'No,' said Mary, opening her eyes widely.

'Do you know what pinching is?'

'Oh yes,' said Mary, for Mrs. Coppert was very fond of pinching.

'Well, when I want to prove a little girl is awake, I pinch her.'

'But I know I'm not,' said Mary. 'I can't be. It's all part of the
dream--your telling me that.'

Mary began to spoil her dream by looking forward to the time when she
must awake to find herself upon the floor at the house in William
Street, with her ragged dress waiting to be worn again. Still, it was
the most real dream she had ever had, and it certainly seemed to be a
very long one.

But when another week had passed, Mary began to see it was not really a
dream after all. Everything was just as nice as ever, or even nicer; she
had the most delicious things to eat and drink: chicken and toast, and
all sorts of nice puddings, boiled custard, jelly, and grapes and
oranges. She was able to sit up in bed to eat them too, and she wore a
blue dressing-gown, and the lady with the kind, dark eyes read
delightful stories. Now, this was something quite new to Mary Brown, and
the stories seemed almost as wonderful as the change in her own little
life.

She only knew of the things she had seen or heard at William Street--not
nice things at all. She had imagined all the world must be like that,
for although she was very young, Mary had often thought about things.
Still, she had never thought of anything half so wonderful as
Jack-and-the-Beanstalk, or Ali Baba, or Aladdin, or Cinderella. Mary
grew quite to love Cinderella, and I can't tell you how many times she
heard the story of the glass slipper.

'I know how I came here now!' she exclaimed one afternoon.

'Do you indeed?' was the answer. 'Then, perhaps, you will tell me!'

'I'm like Cinderella,' said Mary. 'Cinderella was very miserable, and I
was very miserable. Then her fairy-godmother came to make her happy; she
gave her all kinds of pretty dresses and things--the fairy-godmother
did--and some one has given me all kinds of nice things, and taken me
away from William Street and brought me here; so, of course, I know it
must be my fairy-godmother too.' Then Mary was silent for a little
while. 'Are you my fairy-godmother?' she asked.

'No,' was the answer. 'I am not nearly important enough to be anybody's
fairy-godmother.'

'Who are you?' asked Mary.

'Well, I am