“Were you the faery?” I asked, looking at him.
“I am always a faery,” he replied, smiling. “You saw me as I generally appear to mortals; but, as the King has given you permission to learn some of the secrets of Faeryland, I now appear to you in my real form.”
“So this is the King’s library?” I said, looking round; “but how did I come here?—or rather, how did the glade change to the library?”
“The glade has not changed at all,” said Phancie quietly; “it is still around you, but your eyes have been unsealed, and you now see beneath the surface.”
“But I don’t understand,” I observed, feeling perplexed.
“It is difficult,” assented Phancie gravely, “but I can show you what I mean by an illustration. When you see a grub, it only looks to your eyes an ugly brown thing; but my eyes can see below the outside skin, to where a beautiful butterfly is lying with folded wings of red and gold. The glade you saw was, so to speak, the skin of the library. Now, your sight has been made keen by the command of the King. You see this splendid room—it is still the glade, and still the room; only it depends upon your sight being lightened or darkened.”
“It doesn’t look a bit like the glade.”
“You don’t think so, of course,” said Phancie kindly; “but I will explain. The white pillars are the trunks of the trees; the green curtains between are the green leaves; the ceiling is the blue sky; the white globe that gives light is the moon; and the golden fretwork on the ceiling is the leaves and boughs of the trees shining against the clear sky.”
“And the books?” I asked quickly.
“Here are the books,” he replied, drawing one of the green curtains a little on one side, and there I saw rows of volumes in brown covers, which reminded me somewhat of the tint of the withered leaves.