The boy left the grassy avenue and broke into the undergrowth of woods. He went in front, parting the branches for Kay. He explained to them, “Friday Lane’s shorter, you know; but this other way’s heaps jollier.”
Presently above the rustle of their passage they heard a little singing sound. Sometimes it grew quite loud and near them; sometimes it died away into the merest breath.
It was like someone who was almost asleep, humming over and over the first two notes of a tune that refused to be remembered. Kay snuggled her hand into Peter’s; she was a little scared. Everything was so dark and eerie. The sound drew near and seemed to slip away from under her very feet. She cried out; it was as though someone had touched her and had vanished before she could turn round.
The boy heard her cry and looked back. He nodded reassuringly. “It’s always doing that—plays no end of pranks. You needn’t be frightened; it won’t hurt you.”
“But what is it? What won’t hurt you?” Peter asked almost angrily.
The boy laid his finger on his lips. “The wood’s haunted. That’s the queen fairy calling. There are all kinds of fairies hidden about here. When you see them, they turn into rabbits and birds, and——” Because Kay had covered her face, he stopped. “I’m—I’m an ass. It isn’t really, you know. I just tell myself that.”
“Then what is it?” asked Peter, slightly awed, for the voice kept on singing.
The boy laughed. “It’s the tiniest little river that’s lost itself. It creeps about under the bushes and wriggles through the leaves on its tummy, trying to find a way out.”
“And does it find it?” asked Kay, plucking up her courage.
“You bet you. Wait till we get to the Happy Cottage.” And all of a sudden they got there. It was as though the little river had led them, for just where they broke out into the sunlight it rushed past them, flashing silver and singing merrily, with all the words of its song remembered. At first they saw a green, green stretch of grass, over which the yellow of cowslips drifted like blown gold-dust. Then they saw Friday Lane, with its tall oaks holding back the woods, like big policemen marshaling a crowd when a procession is expected. And then they saw the Happy Cottage—a bee-hive, with low-thatched roof, set down in a refuge of flowers. It had one chimney, from which smoke was lazily ascending; and it must be logs that the fire was burning, for the air was filled with the indescribable homey smell that sets one dreaming of all the country cottages, tucked away in gardens, and all the summer happiness he has ever chanced on.