"It is all right, Johannes," she cried out. "You may come and see the book."
"Where is Robin Redbreast?" said Johannes, mistrustfully.
"He did not come. But we are not going for a walk."
Then he went with her, thinking all the time to himself:
"It cannot be! Not this way!—it must be entirely different!"
Yet he followed the sunny, blonde hair that lighted his way.
Alas! things went sadly now with little Johannes. I could wish that his story ended here. Did you ever have a splendid dream of a magical garden where the flowers and animals all loved you and talked to you? And did the idea come to you then, that you might wake up soon, and all that happiness be lost? Then you vainly try to hold the dream—and not to wake to the cold light of day. That was the way Johannes felt when he went with Robinetta.
He went into the house—and down a passage that echoed with his footsteps. He breathed the air of clothes and food; he thought of the long days when he had had to stay indoors, of his school-tasks, and of all that had been sombre and cold in his life.
He entered a room with people in it—how many he did not see. They were talking together, yet when he came they ceased to speak. He noticed the carpet; it had big, impossible flowers in glaring colors. They were as strange and deformed as those of the hangings in his bedroom at home.
"Well, is this the gardener's little boy?" said a voice right in front of him. "Come here, my young friend; you need not be afraid."