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Once in about every so often, it seems, little boys just have to get sick. Sometimes it is their own fault; sometimes the fault of the weather; and sometimes there doesn’t seem to be any reason at all–except maybe germs. And who ever saw a real live germ walking around, except, perhaps, doctors looking through microscopes? And, besides, germs are too tiny to make a real big boy with pockets in his trousers, and a reader, and a geography, go to bed.

But that is just what had happened to Marmaduke.

He hadn’t felt so sick in the daytime–just sort of dreamy, and not like playing at all. He only wanted to lie where he could watch the fingers of the sun-beams stray over the rag rug and pick out the pretty colors in it, and where he could see Mother and call to her when he wanted her. That was always important–to have her near.

At supper all Mother would give him was a cup of warm milk. She said he couldn’t have anything solid, not even bread. But after all, perhaps it was better, for his appetite wasn’t so very big. He had only asked because he thought he ought to have things Jehosophat had, and didn’t want to be deprived of any of his privileges.

Those two round things–like cherries–stuck in his throat so. What was it the doctor called them? Tonsils, that was it. And they felt as big as footballs now, and, oh, so sore!

The doctor decided he had “tonsil-eatus”–a funny name. He called out to Mother to inquire if they would really “eat us”–and how they could “eat us” when they were in your throat already. He felt rather proud of that joke and better for having made it–for a little while, anyway.

There was one “‘speshully fine” thing about being sick. Mother would always send Jehosophat and Hepzebiah into the spare room to sleep, and she would come herself and lie down in Jehosophat’s bed, right next to the little sick boy, right where he could reach out his hand and place it in hers. That was “most worth” all the aches and the pains.

It was all right to have Father near, but somehow Marmaduke felt better if it was Mother that lay by his side. Her hands and her voice were sort of cool and they drove the bad things that came in his dreams far away.

There was one other fine thing about being sick the Fairy Lamp!

At least that was what the children had named it. It was really a little blue bowl, not light blue like his oatmeal bowl, but almost as blue as periwinkles, or the sky some nights. It had little creases on the outside, “flutings,” Mother said, like the pleats in her dress. Inside the bowl was a thick white candle, and it had a curly black wick like a kewpie’s topknot.

Now Mother wanted to make sponge for the bread, but Marmaduke pleaded,–

“I want you to stay with me, I feel so sick.”

“Wouldn’t my little boy let me go–just for five minutes?”

He thought that over for a little while. Then, “Yes,” he said slowly, “if you light the Fairy Lamp.”

So she struck the match and touched it to the wick. The wick always seemed lazy about being lit. It acted as if the match were waking it up.

But all of a sudden it would burst into flame, and the dark blue of the bowl would turn into light blue–oh, such a pretty color, not like the bluing Hannah put in the water to make the clothes white, nor would it match Sophy Soapstone’s electric blue dress. It was more like a blue mist, just such a shade as the fairies would wear.

Marmaduke watched it a long time. Sometimes the little flame sputtered, sometimes it waved in the air, or dipped and bowed in his direction, and once it actually winked at him.