“You ought to be smothered with your own crazy-quilt for daring to cut up the fairy cloak!”
“The fairy cloak!” echoed Dame Dingle. “What do you mean?”
“That cloak was a gift to my sister from the fairies,” said Bud; “and it had a magic charm. Aren’t you afraid the fairies will punish you for what you have done?”
[Illustration: “‘WHERE IS THE CLOAK?’ CRIED THE THREE, IN A BREATH.”]
“How could I know it?” she asked, anxiously; “how could I know it was a magic cloak that old Edi gave to me?”
“Well, it was; and woven by the fairies themselves,” retorted the boy. “And a whole nation is in danger because you have wickedly cut it up.”
Dame Dingle tried to cry, to show that she was sorry and so escape punishment. She put her apron over her face, and rocked herself back and forth, and made an attempt to squeeze a tear out of her eyes.
“Why, it isn’t so bad, after all!” she exclaimed. “We can sew the cloak together again.”
“Of course!” said Fluff, coming from the doorway. “Why didn’t we think of that at once?”
“Where is the rest of the cloak?” demanded Zixi.
Dame Dingle went to a chest and drew forth the half of the cloak that had not been cut up. There was no doubt about its being the magic cloak. The golden thread Queen Lulea had woven could be seen plainly in the web, and the brilliant colors were as fresh and lovely as ever. But the flowing skirt of the cloak had been ruthlessly hacked by Dame Dingle’s shears, and presented a sorry plight.
“Get us the patches you have cut!” commanded Zixi; and without a word the dame drew from her basket five small squares and then ripped from the crazy-quilt the one she had just sewn on.
“But this isn’t enough,” said Fluff, when she had spread the cloak upon the floor and matched the pieces. “Where is the rest of the cloak?”
“Why,—why—” stammered Dame Dingle, with hesitation, “I gave them away.”
“Gave them away! Who got them?” said Bud.
“Why,—some friends of mine were here from the village last evening, and we traded patches, so each of us would have a variety for our crazy-quilts.”
“And I gave each of them one of the patches from the pretty cloak.”
“Well, you _are_ a ninny!” declared Bud, scornfully.
“Yes, your Majesty; I believe I am,” answered Dame Dingle, meekly.