“What are these?” Amelia asked.
“They are the broken threads of all the conversations you have interrupted,” was the reply; “and pretty dangerous work it is to dance here now, with threads getting round one’s shoe points. Dance a hornpipe in a herring-net, and you’ll know what it is!”
Amelia began to pick up the threads, but it was tedious work. She had cleared a yard or two, and her back was aching terribly, when she heard the fiddle and the mazurka behind her; and looking round she saw the old dwarf, who was playing away, and making the most hideous grimaces as his chin pressed the violin.
“Dance, my lady, dance!” he shouted.
“I do not think I can,” said Amelia; “I am so weary with stooping over my work.”
“Then rest a few minutes,” he answered, “and I will play you a jig. A jig is a beautiful dance, such life, such spirit! So!”
And he played faster and faster, his arm, his face, his fiddle-bow all seemed working together; and as he played, the threads danced themselves into three heaps.
“That is not bad, is it?” said the dwarf; “and now for our own dance,” and he played the mazurka. “Get the measure well into your head. Lâ, la fa lâ! Lâ, la fa lâ! So!”
And throwing away his fiddle, he caught Amelia round the waist, and they danced as before. After which, she had no difficulty in putting the three heaps of thread into a basket.
“Where are these to be kicked to?” asked the young goblins.