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 færy tale, and these are the tales of Weir.