And now, when he was beginning to feel the creepy joy of being lost, that he had never quite outgrown, the curate came suddenly upon a bright grassy hollow among the dark trees, guarded from view on all sides by high ferns. The dark old beeches gathered round it and stretched their great elbows over it as if to keep its existence secret from all the world but one little girl. Even the sun, who was invited everywhere, was only allowed to take furtive peeps through the green fingers of the jealous old beeches. It was as if they said: "Go away! This little golden maid is all the sunshine we need, thank you!" For there, in a green velvet chair formed by the twisting mossy root of an immense beech tree, sat An Petronia.
The curate stood still in the shadow among the tall ferns, fearing to startle her. She was listening with shut eyes and parted lips. Twice through the green solitude sounded the long, intensely solemn note of a wood thrush, then it was gone, leaving behind it an echo-haunted stillness.
An Petronia opened her eyes and caught sight of the curate.
"Daddy Merle!" she called to him. "Did you hear the thrush? I wonder what he said, Daddy Merle?"
"He said, 'I wonder who that little girl is that sits all alone by herself in my private wood?'" intoned the curate. "Aren't you afraid of getting lost?" he said, as he descended the ferny slope to where she sat.
"I isn't losted. I tan't det losted. I has four Pottles."
She pointed to four dolls, in various stages of dilapidation, sitting stiffly in a row in front of her, their eight feet immersed in a trickle of water that seemed to come from nowhere and disappeared magically among the ferns, chuckling to itself at the success of its vanishing trick.
"Dear me," said Merle, inspecting the dolls with a profound show of interest, "I had no idea you had so many children. What are their names?" he inquired.
"They're not children," said An Petronia, "they're Pottles. Their names are Maffew, Mart, Loot, and this one," she picked up the least favored in appearance of the four, "this one is Don." She caressed him tenderly. It was plain that Don was the one she loved best, perhaps because of his great misfortune. Don was headless.
"He had real hair once, but I losted his head," An Petronia sighed deeply. "I wish I had all the Pottles, Daddy Merle."