She nodded again. “I like Cinnamon. Granny makes them--round ones--cookies. I like ’em.” “And who is Grannie?” he asked. “She is--Grannie,” replied the child. “Do you live here?” Her direct eyes were on his face. “Yes, I--live--here.” He said the words slowly and a little sadly. “Who does your work?” she asked promptly. He leaned toward her, very serious. “A fairy,” he said. She slipped from the box and came toward him, her face aglow. “Where is it?” she demanded. She stood before him very straight--courage and health and belief in every line of the swift little body. He half put out a hand, but she stirred a little and he withdrew it, leaning back in his chair and gazing with half-shut eyes into the flame. “You can’t see a fairy, you know,” he said quietly. She had bent forward, a hand on either knee, peering intently into the fire. She straightened herself--“Don’t you see it?” she asked. “Not ever?” A disappointed look was in the eyes. He shook his head. “They come at night, you know.” The brown eyes searched his face. Then the curls wagged from side to side. “That’s a Brownie that comes at night,” she said reprovingly. He looked his surprise. “Is it, indeed--a Brownie!” She nodded. “Grannie told me.” She came nearer and placed her little fat hand on his knee. “I like you,” she said. He scarcely breathed and his face, as he leaned back in the chair, was very still. She tipped forward and peered into it. “Are you asleep?” she asked. It was almost a whisper--solicitous, but firm. He shook his head. The tired eyes opened and looked at her, full of a kind of sweet light. “I am--resting,” he said. She nestled a little nearer to him, carelessly, and looked into the fire. Presently she hummed to herself....a little crooning song--half words, half happiness: Then she left him and wandered about the room, touching things with grave, respectful touches, but with liveliest curiosity in the peering brown eyes. When she had finished, she went toward the door. “I am going, now,” she announced. He dared not put out a finger to stay her and his eyes did not lift themselves from the flames. “Come again,” he said carelessly. “Yes,” she replied. It was a very grave little word--full of assurance and comradeship. Then she opened the door and went out. The fire flared in the sudden gust and he looked around. The door--too heavy for her to close--swung wide to the October sun, and down the path the sturdy brown figure was trudging, holding intent on its way. Simeon moved to the door and stood looking after it. The sun shone clear.... Everywhere the serene, level light and in the midst of it, moving steadily on, a quaint, sturdy figure.... He put up his hand impatiently, brushing aside something that hindered his gaze. When he withdrew the hand, he looked down at it and thrust it out of sight, perplexed and savage and stirred.... “God bless me!” he said, “I’m growing soft!”