twice I had been wrecked, and I would not
make a third venture. And yet I will not
repine; if twice the wreck was bitter, twice too
the voyage was sweet and fair; if twice I went
through a great agony, it came after long
happiness.

I was a very happy child. My father was
wealthy, and we lived in an old Elizabethan
mansion with a background of noble trees and
a bright Dutch flower garden in front. My
mother died before I could feel her loss; my
godmother, Aunt Anne, replaced her for a time,
and when she married and left us, my father
found Miss Græme. I was sitting in the garden
reading a fairy tale by the little trickling
fountain, when I saw her first. I had been looking
at the old red house, with its flight of steps and
the terrace, and the vases of scarlet geraniums,
until I had turned all these into the good fairy's
palace. My book was on my lap, and as I
listened to the plash, plash of the water which
danced in the sunlight, and fell back bubbling
over its broad stone cup into the basin below,
I entered fairy land with the lovely little
princess, whom the handsome prince was ever
seeking and never finding, though even to my
childish mind, it would have been so easy.

"Anne," said my father's voice. I looked
up with a start, and there in the sunlight I saw
Miss Græme. Was it the fairy tale I had been
reading, was it something in her own young
and gracious aspect that made her so lovely in
my childish eyes? I have been assured since
then that Mary Græme was by no means
beautiful, though everyone agreed that her dark
eyes were very fine, and that her smile was
irresistible. That smile shone on me when glancing
up. I saw a young and slender girl in deep
mourning, and who looked almost a child—the
lovely little princess—as she stood by my stalwart
father's side.

This was my governess. I soon loved her
with a sort of passion. Miss Græme found in
me a willing and docile pupil, and she did not
merely teach me as she was bound to do, she
also imparted to me some of her own tastes,
and with them much endearing happiness. To
her I owe not only my knowledge of, but also
my love for music and flowers. How often, as
I sit alone and play some grand passage from
Beethoven, some tender and lovely air from
Mozart, does Miss Græme's young face, lit by
those soft dark eyes of hers, rise by my side,
and smile on me once more—sweet, loving, and,
oh! have I not proved it, and may I not say it,
beloved? But even more than music do my
walks in the country recal her. Many a time
have we wandered together, she a happy girl,
and I a happy child, in the green lanes where
we watched the birth of the early flowers, the
primrose, the violet, the lily of the valley, and
others more humble still. Many a time have
we gone forth to steal ferns from their shady
haunts, glossy hart's tongue, delicate maidenhair,
stately polipodies, wherewith to adorn our
fernery! I am lonely now, but I will not deny
you, my happy days, because you were followed
by some sad and dark hours! You did not pass
away from my life, like sunlight from the
landscape in summer time. When I look back I
see you still in the past, bright, warm, and
beautiful, in ever-abiding light. I do not know why
my Aunt Anne did not like Miss Græme.
Whenever she came to see us she had something
unpleasant to say about that young lady herself,
or about her mode of teaching me. Either I
did not improve enough, or when that line of
attack could not be taken, Miss Græme was not
what she should be, or sometimes, by a subtle
difference, was what she should not be. "I
must say she is a little bit of a princess," once
said Aunt Anne within my hearing.

My father raised his eyebrows, and burst out
into one of his joyous genial laughs.

"I have seen some princesses in my time,"
he said gaily, "and my experience of the royal
ladies is that there are not many of them half
so charming as Miss Græme."

Now I was quite of my father's opinion; from
the beginning I had identified my dear Miss
Græme with the princess whose story I was
reading when I first saw her, and as the love of
children is not a silent discreet love, I took
the very earliest opportunity I got of repeating
to my young governess both Aunt Anne's
speech and my father's answer.

"Aunt Anne says you are a little bit of a
princess," said I, "and papa says he wishes
princesses were half so charming as you are,"
I added triumphantly.

Poor Miss Græme turned crimson as she
heard me, and no wonder—my father was in the
room. His presence, which had seemed no
objection to me, gave rather too much force to the
compliment I conveyed.

"You little tell tale," said my father, pulling
my ear, but all the time he was looking at Miss
Græme, who blushed more and more.

Two months after this he married her. I
wonder who was happiest on this wedding day!
I have often thought it was I. It seemed such
a grand thing that my dear princess should
have found her prince in my tall handsome
father; that she should no longer be Miss
Græme, but Lady William Sydney! Besides I
was eight years old, and was to be bridesmaid,
the only one Miss Græme would have, though
in other respects the marriage ceremony was
performed with great pomp, great ringing of
bells, great strewing of flowers, and, as if Heaven
itself had blessed it, with a great and glorious
flood of the summer sunshine pouring down
upon it. My father looked supremely blest.
He was fifteen years older than his little bride,
who seemed more childish than ever by his
side; but I think the disparity in their years
only endeared them the more to each other; as
he loved her youth, so she loved his strength.
The world, I believe, spoke of folly on one side
and of designing art on the other; but I, who
loved them both, thought there never had been
such a pair out of my old friend, the Fairy
Tales.

I was old enough to know better, but when