"But what possible use can a key be to a bird?" asked Pierre.
"Ask them, ask them," sang the dryad.
"No, no," exclaimed Iona, "the birds think we are robbers when we wouldn't rob them for the world, and yet if we take the key from them they might call it robbing. What shall we do?" She clasped her hands together and the dryad, mischievous as she was, and full of fun, appeared to feel some sympathy with her. At any rate the green-clad maiden leaned forward, and with a hand as white as mist touched one of Iona's golden curls.
"Fair exchange," she sighed, laughing. "Fair exchange is no rob—" her voice died away, and with the voice, her leaf-like gown and fair face.
"I've heard that before about fair exchange," said Pierre. "Iona, we will let all the birds know that you will give a curl for the key. I believe the dryad has helped us more than anyone."
The rain ceased and the children climbed out of their hollow, and hand in hand walked among the dripping trees. The sun burst forth from the racing clouds, and the birds, flying from their shelters among the branches, began to sing.
"There are those children again," sang one.
"Why should you be afraid of creatures as small as we are?" sang another.
"And we love you so, we love you so," cried Iona.