“What have you done with the letter?” asked Philomène smiling, “did you throw it away when you started house-hunting for the mole?”
The elf cocked her head on one side, and looked up with small bright eyes; her shimmering wings were folded, and her little green shoes peeped from beneath her dress of tussore-coloured silk. “I do not understand you,” said she, “I don’t even know who you are. Oh, yes, I do though, you must be the little girl who was to arrive yesterday; the stable cat told me you were expected. But we have not met till this moment.”
“But I was speaking to you only a few minutes ago at the dove-cot, and I gave you Sweet William’s letter of introduction!” exclaimed Philomène in amazement.
The elf laughed. “It must have been my twin sister whom you saw just now,” said she, “I am Spirea. However, I don’t wonder at your mistake, for when we were babies and cradled in the same pod, our own mother did not know us apart. We will settle about your lease some other time,” she added, turning to the bird, who had been preening his feathers to conceal his annoyance at the interruption, “and you had better not mention it to the people at the Rookery till you hear something more definite from me. Now I am at your disposal,” she continued to Philomène, “where shall we go? To the swing? You might sit in it, and I could talk to you from a mossy settee between the roots of one of the horse-chestnuts.”
The place was soon reached, and the two remained chatting there very pleasantly, till Philomène thought it must be getting late, and that she ought to find out if her godmother intended to go to evensong; so she said good-night to Spirea, who promised to see her again the following day.
Isolde was still sitting in the hayfield, and the vicar stood before her, abusing modern operas. “What dreadfully dull things they do talk about,” thought Philomène, “when they might have been making friends with twin fairies all this time! But perhaps they couldn’t, even if they wanted to, not without the green ribbons.”
“You’re fond of music, aren’t you?” asked the vicar, sitting down and drawing Philomène towards him into the lengthening shade of the hayrick. Philomène nodded.
“Yes,” she replied, “some music. I don’t like Lilian Augusta’s hymns much, but I do like it when Godmother sits by herself at the spinet and sings: