“Why—how then can my domino-box be changed into a geranium and a blue-and-white flower-pot?” “My dear,” said my father, leaning his hand on my shoulder, “every body who is in earnest to be good, carries two fairies about with him—one here,” and he touched my heart; “and one here,” and he touched my forehead. “I don’t understand, papa.” “I can wait till you do, Pisistratus! What a name!” My father stopped at a nursery gardener’s, and, after looking over the flowers, paused before a large double geranium. “Ah, this is finer than that which your mamma was so fond of. What is the cost, sir?” “Only 7s. 6d.,” said the gardener. My father buttoned up his pocket. “I can’t afford it to-day,” said he gently, and we walked out. On entering the town, we stopped again at a china-warehouse. “Have you a flower-pot like that I bought some months ago? Ah, here is one, marked 3s. 6d. Yes, that is the price. Well, when your mamma’s birth-day comes again, we must buy her another. That is some months to wait. And we can wait, Master Sisty. For truth, that blooms all the year round, is better than a poor geranium; and a word that is never broken, is better than a piece of delf.” My head, which had drooped before, rose again; but the rush of joy at my heart almost stifled me. “I have called to pay your little bill,” said my father, entering the shop of one of those fancy stationers common in country towns, and who sell all kinds of pretty toys and nicknacks. “And by the way,” he added, as the smiling shopman looked over his books for the entry, “I think my little boy here can show you a much handsomer specimen of French workmanship than that work-box which you enticed Mrs Caxton into raffling for, last winter. Show your domino-box, my dear.” I produced my treasure, and the shopman was liberal in his commendations. “It is always well, my boy, to know what a thing is worth, in case one wishes to part with it. If my young gentleman gets tired of his plaything, what will you give him for it?” “Why, sir,” said the shopman, “I fear we could not afford to give more than eighteen shillings for it, unless the young gentleman took some of these pretty things in exchange.” “Eighteen shillings!” said my father; “you would give _that_. Well, my boy, whenever you do grow tired of your box, you have my leave to sell it.” My father paid his bill, and went out. I lingered behind a few moments, and joined him at the end of the street. “Papa, papa!” I cried, clapping my hands, “we can buy the geranium—we can buy the flower-pot.” And I pulled a handful of silver from my pockets. “Did I not say right?” said my father, passing his handkerchief over his eyes—“You have found the two fairies!” Oh! how proud, how overjoyed I was, when, after placing vase and flower on the window-sill, I plucked my mother by the gown, and made her follow me to the spot. “It is his doing, and his money!” said my father; “good actions have mended the bad.”