On the short grass at the bottom of the clearing was a fairy ring, and to Lynette the whole wilderness was full of the little people. The dell was her playing ground, and she fled to it on those happy occasions when Miss Vance, her governess, had her hours of freedom. As for Canterton, he was just the child that she was, entering into all her fancies, applauding them, and taking a delight in her gay, elf-like enthusiasm. “Have you seen Brer Rabbit to-night?” “No.” “He just said ‘How de do’ to me as I came through the wood. And I saw old Sergeant Hedgehog taking a nap under a tuft of grass.” “I don’t like old Hedgehog. I don’t like prickly people, do you, daddy?” “Not much.” “Like Miss Nickleton. She might be a pin-cushion. She’s always taking out pins, and putting you all tidy.” “Now then, we’ve got to be very serious. What’s the supper to be to-night?” “Baked potatoes and tea.” “By Jove, they’ll get fat.” Canterton set her down and threw himself into the business with an immense seriousness that made him the most convincing of playfellows. He took off his coat, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and looked critically at the fire. “We want some more wood, daddy.” “Just so.” He went among the larches, gathered an armful of dead wood, and returned to the fire. Lynette was kneeling and poking it with a stick, her hair shining in the sunlight, her pale face with its hazel eyes full of a happy seriousness. Canterton knelt down beside her, and they began to feed the fire. “Rather sulky.” “Blow, daddy.” He bent down and played Æolus, getting red in the face. “I say, what a lot of work these fairies give us!” “But won’t they be pleased! I like to think of them coming out in the moonlight, and feasting, and then having their dance round the ring.” “And singing, ‘Long live Lynette.’” They heated up the water in the saucepan, and made tea—of a kind—and baked the potatoes in the embers of the fire. Lynette always spread the feast on the bottom of a bank near the fairy ring. Sergeant Hedgehog, black-eyed field mice, and an occasional rat, disposed of the food, but that did not matter so long as Lynette found that it had gone. Canterton himself would come down early, and empty the tea away to keep up the illusion. “I think I’ll be a fairy some night, Lynette.” Her eyes laughed up at him. “Fancy you being a fairy, daddy! Why, you’d eat up all the food, and there wouldn’t be room to dance.” “Come, now, I’m hurt.” She stroked his face. “You’re so much better than a fairy, daddy.” The sun slanted lower, and shadows began to cover the clearing. Canterton smothered the fire, picked up Lynette, and set her on his shoulders, one black leg hanging down on either side of his cerise tie, for Canterton always wore Irish tweeds, and ties that showed some colour. “Off we go.”