“I never knew there was a difference between Myself and I,” murmured Kitty, who felt compelled to gaze at that transparent form, although she would much rather not have looked. It was so very uncomfortable to see that tree through it.
“I made him; is he not a beauty?” said I, proudly pointing with his thumb, and a grin to his companion.
Myself acknowledged the compliment by bowing his misty head, and grinning likewise.
“How did you make him?” asked Kitty with a little shiver.
“I made him,” said I, “with my thoughts. I thought of myself night and day, talking, eating, walking, sleeping, I thought of myself, and one day there was Myself before me—the dear—he never quits me—never—we gaze at each other—we love each other.”
“And we love nobody else—nobody—nobody—nobody else,” joined in the thin rattle of a voice.
“Are you never tired of each other?—I—mean—of—of—well, I don’t know how to put it—quite—for you are not each other,” said Kitty.
“Tired!” shrieked the two voices together; and then the two beings fell into each other’s arms.
“If you please,” said Kitty, after having watched this scene of affection, and feeling rather neglected, “will you tell me if it is a long way out of this wood?”