how persistently the rain and wind bit at one's marrow through the rags
of a conventional cloak. More than this--it had colored the road ahead
for her, promising pleasant comradeship and good cheer; it would keep
her from ever losing heart or turning back.

A day came at last when she and the Old Senior Surgeon could laugh--a
little foolishly, perhaps--over the child-story; and then, just because
they could laugh at it and feel happy, they told it together all over
again. They made much of Thumbkin's christening feast, and the gifts
the good godmothers brought.

"Let me see," said the Old Senior Surgeon, cocking his head
thoughtfully, "there was the business-like little party on a
broomstick, carrying grit--plain grit."

"And the next one brought happiness--didn't she?" asked little Margaret
MacLean.

He nodded. "Of course. Then came a little gray-haired faery with a
nosegay of Thoughts-for-other-folks, all dried and ready to put away
like sweet lavender."

"And did the next bring love?"

Again he agreed. "But after her, my dear, came a comfortable old lady
in a chaise with a market-basket full of common-sense."

"And then--then-- Oh, couldn't the one after her bring beauty? Some
one always did in the book stories. I think I wouldn't mind the back
and--other things so much if my face could be nice."