Gracefully she stood as she recited
a verse that had been a part of the fairy play.
"If you're striving to excel,
And your very best you do,
You shall be rewarded well;
I will make your wish come true."
A dark figure crouched behind a clump of underbrush that the gardener
had thought too pretty to cut down.
Through snow and ice the red leaves had clung to the little scrub oak,
and now that a mild day had come, the leaves looked very bright as the
sun lay on them.
The figure hiding there was Gyp, and his eyes grew brighter as he heard
the little verse.
He stirred uneasily.
Sprite, believing herself to be alone, repeated the verse with even
greater spirit than before, and as she spoke the last line, Gyp sprang
to his feet.
"I will make your wish come true," said Sprite, whereat Gyp sprang
from his hiding-place, crying:
"Oh, _will_ yer? _Will_ yer? _Are_ ye a fairy? _Kin_ yer grant my
wish?"
All the superstition of his race showed in his eager face.
Sprite seemed neither afraid nor startled, nor was she annoyed at the
interruption.
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