“No good fairy had ever bestowed such a gift as this magic lens,” said Dr. Strong, whisking Bettina up from her seat by the window and setting her on his knee. “It was most marvelously and delicately made, and furnished with a lightning-quick intelligence of its own. Everything that went on around it, it reported to its fortunate possessor as swiftly as thought flies through that lively little brain of yours. It earned its owner’s livelihood for him; it gave him three fourths of his enjoyments and amusements; it laid before him the wonderful things done and being done all over the world; it guided all his life. And all that it required was a little reasonable care, and such consideration as a man would show to the horse that worked for him.” “At the beginning you said it wasn’t a fairytale,” accused Bettina, with the gravity which five years considers befitting such an occasion. “Wait. Because the owner of the magic lens found that it obeyed all his orders so readily and faithfully, he began to impose on it. He made it work very hard when it was tired. He set tasks for it to perform under very difficult conditions. At times when it should have been resting, he compelled it to minister to his amusements. When it complained, he made light of its trouble.” “Could it speak?” inquired the little auditor. “At least it had a way of making known its wants. In everything which concerned itself it was keenly intelligent, and knew what was good and bad for it, as well as what was good and bad for its owner.” “Couldn’t it stop working for him if he was so bad to it?” “Only as an extreme measure. But presently, in this case, it threatened to stop. So the owner took it to a cheap and poor repair-shop, where the repairer put a little oil in it to make it go on working. For a time it went on. Then, one morning, the owner woke up and cried out with a terrible fear. For the magic light in the magic lens was gone. So for that foolish man there was no work to do nor play to enjoy. The world was blotted out for him. He could not know what was going on about him, except by hearsay. No more was the sky blue for him, or the trees green, or the flowers bright; and the faces of his friends meant nothing. He had thrown away the most beautiful and wonderful of all gifts. Because it is a gift bestowed on nearly all of us, most of us forgot the wonder and the beauty of it. So, Honorable Miss Twinkles, do you beware how you treat the magic lens which is given to you.” “To me?” cried the child; and then, with a little squeal of comprehension: “Oh, I know! My eyes. That’s the magic lens. Isn’t it?” “What’s that about Bettykin’s eyes?” asked Mr. Clyde, who had come in quietly, and had heard the finish of the allegory. “I’ve been examining them,” explained Dr. Strong, “and the story was reward of merit for her going through with it like a little soldier.” “Examining her eyes? Any particular reason?” asked the father anxiously.