Just as Philomène was going to bed, a letter from Godmother arrived.
“My own little cushat,” wrote Isolde, “I am afraid you will have to wait a little while before you can have your birthday present, for it is a trap and a white donkey, and though you had better leave them at the Cushats as parlour boarders when you are in London, they are to be your very own all the same. I want you to come and stay with me, my little bird, for July and August and part of September. You and I will get on very well together in the summer, I hope, and take out the new white Neddie for lots of drives. We shall have a great deal to tell each other when we meet, but I have no time for more now. Goodbye, my bairnie. Love and all good wishes from Godmother.”
It was when Philomène looked out of her bedroom window on the morning of the day following her birthday, that she noticed a large fairy ring on the lawn, and felt very much flattered, for by it she knew that the fairies had not forgotten the occasion, but had given a ball in her honour.
CHAPTER XI IN WHICH THE HEROINE IS GIVEN A LETTER OF INTRODUCTION
During the remaining days of that gladsome rose-red June, Philomène went about the house with a face as glad as any sunbeam and as rosy as any flower. Nurse thought that the prospect of riding in a hay-cart and digging in the sand with a new spade sufficiently accounted for these radiant looks, but though the haystacks loomed large, they loomed only in the background—it was Godmother’s figure which occupied the foreground.
The plan cast only one shadow. Philomène felt very sorry at having to leave Master Mustardseed and Sweet William, and when the day for packing arrived, she had tears in her eyes as she opened the cage-door, and put in her hand so that the canary might perch upon her wrist. Unhappily Nurse was present, so Philomène could only kiss the canary’s green head tenderly, and whisper, “It isn’t for so very long, dear,” before she again closed the cage-door. As for Queen Mab, she put a soft padded paw into her mistress’s hand, and rubbed a soft whiskered face against her mistress’s arm, as who should say, “Goodbye, and don’t get too fond of any other pussycats.”
Then Philomène went into the garden and let herself into Sweet William’s house. He had been expecting her visit, and held out a lean little brown hand with what was for him an air of unusual condescension.