like folks of a more sensible turn."

"Even fairies?" asked Sara, half inclined to protest.

For the first time Schlorge was almost rude to her. "Well, do you take
me for a human? And I can do something besides write poetry on
rose-leaves." He replaced the forceps in his hair with obvious
professional pride--and, of course, when he put them in in that way,
they stayed.

But Sara echoed delightedly, "On rose-leaves?"

"Well, go and see her, then," said Schlorge, ungraciously. Then,
relenting a little, "Come on, I'll take you--if you're stuck on
verse-writing females."

He took Sara by the hand, and of course his hand was kinder than his
voice. To Sara's joy they struck into the curliest of the little paths,
which slipped suddenly through a half-hidden arch in the hawthorn
hedge, and then skipped confidingly right up to Avrillia's door.
Avrillia's house was right on the Verge, but the Verge was quite wide
at this point, and very lovely. It was more like a beach than anything
else; and the sands, of course, like those of most beaches, were of
gold; but instead of being bare, like most beaches, it was sprinkled
quite thickly with lovely clumps of fog-bushes, which were of a
different color every hour of the day and every day of the year; and
the shells had stems and leaves, and were prettier even than most
shells. And Avrillia's house had sails, instead of curtains. Still, it
was not a boat, because it had star-vines climbing all over the
terrace (the flowers were of all colors, except square, and only