'If you did not, it would not vex you so much to find yourself different from them; it could not matter to you what they say. You must learn to care less.'
'I want my key. I want to show it to them.'
'You must not do that; and they would not even then believe you. Of what use would it be?'
'I want my little key from under the rose-bush. Do you know where to find it?'
'Yes, certainly; by the pool you mean? Yes, I know it.'
'Then take me there, Wistik.'
Wistik clambered up on Johannes's shoulder and showed him the way. They went on and on, all the day; the wind blew, and heavy rain fell from time to time, but towards evening the clouds ceased driving, and packed into long grey and gold bars. When they reached the sand-hills which Johannes knew so well, his heart was sad within him, and he whispered again and again, 'Windekind, Windekind!'
There was the rabbit-hole, and the sand-hill where he had fallen asleep. The grey reindeer-moss was soft and damp, and did not crack under his feet. The roses were all over, and the yellow evening-primroses with their faint oppressive scent opened their cups by hundreds. Higher yet grew the tall mulleins with their thick woolly leaves. Johannes looked carefully to espy the small russet leaves of the wild rose.
'Where is it, Wistik? I do not see it.'
'I know nothing of it,' said Wistik. 'You buried the key, not I.'