For a long time Willie had not uttered a single exclamation, and when
the old woman looked up, fancying he must be asleep, she saw, to her
disappointment, a cloud upon his face--amounting to a frown.
"What's the matter with you, Willie, my chick?" she asked. "Have you got
a headache?"
"No, thank you, Mrs Wilson," answered Willie; "but I don't like that
story at all."
"I'm sorry for that. I thought I should be sure to please you this time;
it is one I never told you before, for I had quite forgotten it myself
till this very afternoon. Why don't you like it?"
"Because he was a cheat. _He_ couldn't do the things; it was only the
fairy's wand that did them."
"But he was such a good lad, and had been so kind to the fairy."
"That makes no difference. He _wasn't_ good. And the fairy wasn't good
either, or she wouldn't have set him to do such wicked things."
"They weren't wicked things. They were all first-rate--everything that
he made--better than any one else could make them."
"But he didn't make them. There wasn't one of those poor fellows he
cheated that wasn't a better man than he. The worst of them could do
something with his own hands, and I don't believe he could do anything,
for if he had ever tried he would have hated to be such a sneak.
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