Mr. Pithey resigned himself to the inevitable, and let his well-groomed heavy body gingerly down too. During the wet weather of July the little blue-faced lady had contracted pneumonia and very nearly died. Racked with anxiety, for family ties were dear to him, Mr. Pithey’s inflation and self-importance had failed him, and between him and Ruth a queer friendship had arisen. “She cared—she really cared,” he explained afterward to his wife. So Mr. Pithey showed himself to Ruth at his best, and though perhaps it was not a very handsome best, the direct result was a row of cottages as a thank-offering. “Once upon a time,” began Ruth, “there was a little Earth Elemental who had made the most beautiful flower in all the world, or at least it thought it was the most beautiful, so of course, for it, it _was_.” “What is an Earth Elemental?” asked Elaine Pithey. “The Earth Elementals are the fairies who help make the plants and flowers.” “We don’t believe in fairies,” said Elaine primly. “She’s a bit beyond that sort of stuff,” added Mr. Pithey, looking at the small replica of himself with pride. “Some people don’t,” answered Ruth politely, watching the little blue butterflies among the pale gold stubble, with lazy eyes. Almost she heard echoes of elfin laughter, high and sweet. “I’ve seen them,” Moira broke out very suddenly and to Ruth’s astonishment. That Moira “saw” things she had little doubt, but even to her the little lady was reticent. Something in the Puritan self-complacence had apparently roused her in defence of her inner world. “What are they like then?” asked Elaine, supercilious still, but with an undercurrent of excitement plainly visible. “They’re different,” said Moira. “Some are like humming-birds, only they’ve colours, not feathers, and some are like sweet-peas made of starlight. But some of them are just green and brown—very soft.” “We took first prize for our sweet-peas at the flower show,” announced Elaine suddenly and aggressively. “As big again as any other exhibit they were,” said Mr. Pithey, dusting the front of his white waistcoat proudly. “You may beat us in roses, but our sweet-peas are bigger, I’ll lay half a crown.” “Why don’t I see fairies any way, if you do?” asked Elaine, returning to the attack now she had asserted her superiority. But Moira had withdrawn into herself, bitterly repentant of her revelation. “Have you ever looked through a microscope?” Ruth asked, putting a sheltering arm round the small figure beside her. Elaine looked at her suspiciously. “You mean there’s plenty I can’t see,” she said shrewdly. “But why don’t I see fairies if she does?” Ruth smiled. “I am afraid as a rule they avoid us as much as possible. You see, we human beings mostly kill and torture and destroy all the things they love best.” “I don’t!” Ruth pointed to the tightly held bunch of dying flowers in the child’s hand. “They’re only common poppies!” said Elaine contemptuously.