The sleepy, forgotten town was famous for nothing but its faery tales
told long ago to children whose bright eyes have looked by now on wider
scenes, and whose voices have died away on that wind upon which all
voices sink from hearing at last. I sometimes wonder whether in
imagination they all troop back at the twilight hour: Hubert to cuddle up
in the wing-chair; James to stretch out on the hearth-rug; Veronica and
little Eve to nurse their dolls and gaze through the nursery window half
fearfully at the striding dusk, or to listen to the tap upon the panes of
flying leaves when the great winds rise. Where is Richard who always
wanted "a tale never told before," and small Spencer with his dreaming
eyes and baby mouth? Where is quaint Matilda with her plaid dress and her
straight black hair; where is Ruth?

Wherever they are, I like to think that to them Weir is always their true
home; and their hearts really live in that broad shadowy house where the
steps of the staircase were so wide and shallow that each was a little
landing in itself; and where the candles flamed at night in high sconces;
and in the halls was a rustling of silk; and in the air the smell of
flowers and burning wood. The nursery was high up under the eaves, so
that the rest of the house seemed far-away--a wonderful region where
music might sound, or where, by stealing down, one might see fair ladies
like the princesses of the tales smiling at gallant gentlemen. One's own
mother might turn, indeed, into a princess just before it was time to go
to bed, with white arms and jewels upon her neck.

Then one fell asleep knowing that no day in Weir could be without its
enchantment, whether the clouds seemed caught in the tree-tops, or the
snow flew and made the red roofs white; or whether the sun danced on the
green lawns, for each day ended with a faery tale, and these are the
tales of Weir.