Then Phil felt within himself the wildest, the most intense longing to go. He looked in the lady’s face, and he thought he must fly into her arms; he must lay his head on her breast and ask her to soothe all his life troubles away.
“I know you,” he said suddenly. “Some people call you by another name, but I know who you are. You give little tired boys like me great rest; and I want beyond words to go with you, but there is my mother.”
“Your mother will be cared for. Come. I can give you something better than Avonsyde.”
“Oh, I don’t want Avonsyde! I am not the rightful heir.”
“The rightful heir is coming,” interrupted the lady of the forest. “Look for him on the 5th of May, and look for me too there. Farewell!”
She vanished, and Phil awoke, to find his mother sitting by his bedside, her face bent over him, her eyes wide open with terror.
“Oh, my darling, how you have looked! Are you—are you very ill?”
“No, mammy dear,” answered the little boy, sitting up in the bed and kissing her in his tenderest fashion. “I have had a dream and I know what is coming, but I don’t feel very ill.”
Mrs. Lovel burst into floods of weeping.
“Phil,” she said when she could speak through her sobs, “it is so near now—only one other day. Can you not keep up just for one more day?”