"Strange world!" said Jovita, meditatively, "Real and Unreal so often blended that we can never say which is tangible and which is air."
"Look Jovita, look!" and Crescimir seizing her hand pointed out toward the garden.
They stood there gazing from the window, as if spellbound, until the crimson light faded from the sky and the clear star descended below the hills.
A bit of mist or fog, or what you will hovered about the garden and then gradually rising it became dissolved and was gone.
"Gone!" whispered Jovita, as the darkness shut out the valley from view. "Good little Christchild; but his memory shall ever be with us," answered Crescimir, as they sat side by side before the open fireplace.
Everybody wondered where the little Christchild had gone, and search was made, but, of course, unsuccessfully; yet Crescimir and Jovita said nothing.
Thus, in time, people forgot about the tiny elf and now there are few who have even heard of Crescimir's guest.
The pretty cottage may to-day be seen on the knoll near the wonderful, wide-spreading laurel tree and every Christmas Eve upon the chimney piece of its open hearted hearth may be seen a dark, glossy branch of hemlock with a bunch of toyone.
Before the fire sit Crescimir and Jovita singing the little Christmas carrol of the Illyrian children. Sometimes they think that they hear a sweet, soft voice joining in harmony with their own, but yet they are not sure but that it may perhaps be only the music of their own happy hearts, and smiling at Jovita, who holds the little Crescimir in her arms, Crescimir the Illyrian points to the branch above the hearth while the little one opens his eyes in wonderment.