'Yes,' he replied bravely, 'I am ready. Have I not wished to be of some real use before ending my life? Good-bye, dear little girl, don't cry. I die to save your grandmother.' And he shut his eyes, patiently waiting for the stroke of the cruel knife. But it did not come, and presently a voice said: 'Look up, my good, brave Rabbit.' He opened his eyes. The old woman, the cottage, and the little girl had vanished; and Sylvia, the Guardian Fairy of the Woods and Forests, stood before him. Thou art my most faithful and best of subjects,' she said. 'No cruel death shall be thine, but one of us shalt thou become,-a guardian Fairy to all those who dwell in sylvan scenes. Unseen shalt thou wander through thy favourite haunts, ministering to the wants and cares of others, as thou hast always done.' And so into the grey cloudland of Fancy vanish the Fairy Sylvia and the good old Rabbit. N THE BAG OF TROUBLES AND THE BAG OF JOYS. OW, if only we had Fairies' eyes, I will tell you what we should see every day and every hour of our lives. We should see dozens and dozens of little bags running races in the sky! Whenever a little baby that the Fairies mean to notice is born, two little bags, one filled with joys, the other filled with sorrows, set out on a race; and the bag that runs the fastest jumps upon the baby's back, and remains there for life. It happened once upon a time that two children were born at the same hour, and in the same village; and as they were both chil dren that the Fairies meant to notice, four little bags immediately set out on a race.. In one case trouble won the day, in the other joy. Poor little Ulric, the blacksmith's son, was saddled with the bag of troubles; while Felicia, the infant daughter of the market gardener, was the happy possessor of the bag of joys. 'Whatever ails the boy?' the blacksmith's wife would say. He's that cross, I'm most out of my mind with him; and poor little fellow, I can't blame he noways, for he's always got some trouble or other; either it's his eye, or his nose, or his back that hurts him.' Ay, he do look puny,' Felicia's mother would answer pityingly. 'Very unlike my babe, who's fit to jump out of my very arms for joy like, and is always a-crowing and a-chirruping like six little birds rolled into one; and as for an ache or a pain, I don't believe she'll feel it when it comes.' Time went on, and Ulric and Felicia grew from long clothes into short clothes, from |