OF course, Wendell’s intentions were excellent. He fully meant to devote himself to that home work, to forget the fairy stories that still hung like a mist about his brain and tackle those fractions like a man. But we all know how it is,—just as soon as we have looked at this one funny page of the newspaper, or read this one verse, or found out what the next chapter is about, we will certainly settle right down to business. There was the arithmetic. There were the two fairy books from the Library. Unless you are a seraph with wings and always do your duty, you will not be surprised to hear that Wendell treated himself to just one peek at the fairy stories before doing his home work, and that he never thought of those fractions till he heard his mother’s step on the stairs, when he shoved the fairy book into his desk drawer and opened his arithmetic at random.

“Bedtime, my son. Have you finished your lessons?” asked his mother.

“No! Bothersome lot! Can’t make anything of this example—have to give me another half-hour,” muttered Wendell, not really wishing to deceive his dear mother, but a little bit ashamed to tell her how he had neglected his duty.

“I’m sorry, dear, but you’ll have to do it in the morning. You mustn’t lose sleep. And your brain will be clearer then. I’ll tell Jane to call you half an hour early.”

“Many are called, but few get up,” as the proverb hath it. Wendell, next morning, was not one of the few. Jane’s call fell on sleepy ears. He turned over for one more snooze, woke an hour later to find himself ‘way behind time, hustled through his dressing and his breakfast, and was off to school with lessons unprepared,—a sad thing that happened only too often in his easy-going life.

He managed to slide through most of his recitations, badly but not disgracefully, until he came to the arithmetic class. I might tell you in detail of his tragic floundering through problems that he was supposed to have prepared, of his guilty acknowledgment that he had not made up the delinquencies of yesterday and the day before, and of the stern wrath that was visited upon him by the arithmetic teacher, a strict and disciplinary spinster, whose patience he had often tried in the past. But this is not a school story. I have to record only such a part of his troublous career as led directly to the wonderful adventure of the Wishing Stone. So, briefly, he was “kept in,” with three days’ problems to finish before he could go home.

His teacher, who bore the singularly happy name of Miss Ounce, left him alone in the deserted school-room. She had a lesson to give in another part of the building. Wendell pulled his book in front of him, flipped the pages open to the proper place, ran his fingers through his hair, and remained in that attitude, which may have denoted either deep concentration or utter dejection. He read the first problem through twice, and it had no more meaning for him than Dante’s Inferno in the original tongue.

“Jee-rusalem!” he said aloud after a long pause.

“Can I be of any assistance?” asked a friendly voice. It came from a little being perched on the desk in front of him, who certainly had not been there a moment before. He was about the size of a two-year-old child, but he had the face of an old man, a genial old man with twinkling eyes. His body was very round and quite filled his suit of blue knitted jersey, and his arms and legs were long and spindling.

“For goodness’ sake, who are you?” gasped Wendell.

“I’m a Pixie,” said the being.

“You are?” said Wendell. “I didn’t know there were any—out of fairy stories.”

“But I’m in a fairy story,” explained the Pixie politely. “I’m in the same fairy story you’re in.”

“Am I in one?” said the startled Wendell.

“Since last night,” declared the Pixie. “You wished to be, you know, on the Wishing Stone, after you had run around it nine times. It’s a sure charm.”

“The Wishing Stone! Is that the old Wishing Stone—the alley post?”

“Somewhat fallen into disuse,” assented the Pixie, “but never-the-less the Wishing Stone.”

“Well, I never!” said Wendell.

It was so stupendous, such an unbelievable piece of good fortune, that at first he did not grasp its possibilities. Then his eye fell on the open book lying on his desk.

“Say!” he exclaimed. “If that’s all true, if I’m really living in a fairy story, there ought to be some way of settling junk like this in short order.” He gave a vindictive thump to the arithmetic.

“That’s what I came for,” said the Pixie. “I thought I saw a business opening here.”

“You mean—” faltered Wendell.

“Why, I’ll do your problems for you. That’s easy. And you do three tasks for me.”

“Three?”

“Yes, it’s always three,” said the Pixie.

“Say, I think I ought to get more than just these problems for three. I think you ought to do my home work till the end of the term.”

“Just as soon,” said the Pixie. “No trouble to me. Is it a bargain?”

“But what will you want me to do?” said Wendell.

“I don’t know what I want you to do,” returned the Pixie. “How should I know? Take a chance. Be a sport.”

“All right,” said Wendell. “I will. Here are the problems.”

“Look in your desk,” said the Pixie immediately.

Wendell opened it. There lay three sheets of large pad paper, covered with problems completely solved. Wendell’s name and the date were written at the top in his own handwriting. The work was done neatly enough to pass, but not so excessively neatly as to arouse suspicion.

“Well, you are some little fiend at arithmetic,” pronounced Wendell with great relief.

“Glad you are satisfied,” said the Pixie. “Of course you understand that if you can’t perform my tasks, you belong to me.”

“Well, I might as well belong to you as to Miss Ounce,” ruminated Wendell. “Come on with your first task. I suppose it will be water in a sieve from the Charles River or something like that. They always are.”

“I should say not,” said the Pixie with scorn in his voice. “That might be all very well for the old Kobold that lives under Flag Staff Hill. It’s just his style, in fact. He’s using the same stuff he did when Merlin was practicing. No, I like to advance with the best thought of the time. I’m no back number. Trust me, I’ll find something up to date.”

“Well, speed up,” said Wendell. “What do you want me to do?”

“How should I know?” said the Pixie. “Give me time. I’ll drop around to-night and let you know.”

Just as he was speaking, the door opened, and in came Miss Ounce, and maybe Wendell didn’t jump! He started so conspicuously that Miss Ounce fixed him with an accusing eye and said,

“Well, Wendell, up to mischief, I suppose, instead of doing your work.”

“No, Miss Ounce,” said Wendell, noting with relief that the Pixie was nowhere in sight, and promptly handed over his papers.

“Um, um!” murmured Miss Ounce. “Very good! Might be neater. Every one right, though. Now, Wendell, why is it that when you can do such excellent work as this, you have such a shocking daily record? Yes, shocking is the word.”

Wendell knew the answer to that, but he didn’t give it. He took his lecture silently, standing first on one foot and then on the other, but his mind was on the magic task that the Pixie was to set him, and as soon as he could he slid out of the room.