The piano was being idly strummed as they went in, and the player was easily persuaded to sing the little song. It floated through the open windows and across the lawn as the two men in their corners listened. She knew it by heart, as though she often played it. The candles were not lit. Dusk caught the sound and muted it enchantingly. And somehow the simple melody helped to conceal the meagreness of the childish words. Everywhere, from sky and lawn and solemn trees, the Past came softly in and listened too. There's a Fairy that hides in the beautiful eyes Of children who treat her well; In the little round hole where the eyeball lies She weaves her magical spell. Oh, tell it to me, Oh, how can it be, This Spell of the Blue-Eyes Fairy. Well,--the eyes must be blue, And the heart must be true, And the child must be _better_ than gold; And then, if you'll let her, The quicker the better, She'll make you forget that you're old, That you're heavy and stupid, and--old! So, if such a child you should chance to see, Or with such a child to play, No matter how weary and dull you be, Nor how many tons you weigh; You will suddenly find that you're young again, And your movements are light and airy, And you'll try to be solemn and stiff in vain-- It's the Spell of the Blue-Eyes Fairy! Now I've told it to you, And you _know_ it is true-- It's the Spell of the Blue-Eyes Fairy! 'And it's the same spell,' said the old man in his corner as the last notes died away, and they sat on some minutes longer in the fragrant darkness, 'that you cast about us as a boy, Henry Rogers, when you made that wonderful Net of Stars and fastened it with your comets' nails to the big and little cedars. The one catches your heart, you see, while the other gets your feet and head and arms till you're a hopeless prisoner--a prisoner in Fairyland.' 'Only the world to-day no longer believes in Fairyland,' was the reply, 'and even the children have become scientific. Perhaps it's only buried though. The two ought to run in harness really--opposite interpretations of the universe. One might revive it--here and there perhaps. Without it, all the tenderness seems leaking out of life--' Joan presently said good-night, but the other two waited on a little longer; and before going to bed they took a turn outside among the flower-beds and fruit-trees that formed the tangled Vicarage garden at the back. It was uncommonly warm for a night in early spring. The lilacs were in bud, and the air most exquisitely scented. Rogers felt himself swept back wonderfully among his early years. It seemed almost naughty to be out at such an hour instead of asleep in bed. It was quite ridiculous--but he loved the feeling and let himself go with happy willingness. The story of 'Vice Versa,' where a man really became a boy again, passed through his mind and made him laugh.