pages, as pure and beautiful as the snow when it
first falls? Here was a page with ugly, black spots
and scratches upon it; while the very next page
showed a lovely little picture. Some pages were
decorated with gold and silver and gorgeous
colors, others with beautiful flowers, and still
others with a rainbow of softest, most delicate
brightness. Yet even on the most beautiful of the
pages there were ugly blots and scratches.

Carl and Philip looked up at the Fairy at last.

``Who did this?'' they asked. ``Every page was
white and fair as we opened to it; yet now there is
not a single blank place in the whole book!''

``Shall I explain some of the pictures to you?''
said the Fairy, smiling at the two little boys.

``See, Philip, the spray of roses blossomed on this
page when you let the baby have your playthings;
and this pretty bird, that looks as if it were singing
with all its might, would never have been on
this page if you had not tried to be kind and
pleasant the other day, instead of quarreling.''

``But what makes this blot?'' asked Philip.

``That,'' said the Fairy sadly; ``that came when
you told an untruth one day, and this when you