"He is very old, and no doubt needs his rest," said Hilda; "I won't disturb him, poor old man." So she sat down on the ground at his feet, and every time his head nodded to his knees, she would pick up the queer little red cap that fell off of it, and put it on again. After a long, comfortable nap, the old fellow woke up, and saw Hilda sitting at his feet.
"You are a kind maiden," he said, for he was of a race that know everything without waiting to be told—the Gnomes. "Since you have been so good to me, I will let you pass the wicket. Six months ago your father came this way, and if you can but make friends with our mistress, you may be allowed to see him."
"My father! My dear father!" cried Hilda, overjoyed. "Oh! you good, kind gateman, do lead me to where he is."
"Hush! not a sound," said the Gnome, looking about him in alarm. "Everything has ears and tongues too in this place. One warning will I give you. Answer not when spoken to, serve faithfully, break nothing, show no surprise; and when you can capture the bird that bathes daily in the fountain of life, save the drops from off his plumage. Now go on; and farewell, as no one who passes me comes back this way."
Hilda was frightened by the mystery of the warning, but continued on her way, through a long and winding passage in the rocks, dimly lighted here and there by hanging lamps of alabaster. Reaching another little wicket-gate of golden trellis-work, she summoned all her courage and rang the bell. Out came a hideous crone, whose ears, grown to an enormous size, hung down upon her neck, and who, without asking her business, opened the gate.
"If ears grow like this," thought Hilda, "I had, indeed, better hold my tongue and say nothing to give offence." So, pretending to be dumb, she curtsied to the crone, and made signs that she wanted food and drink. The old woman led Hilda along the path of a neglected garden, to a house built of gray lichen from the bark of trees, and thatched with hoary moss. The
windows were barred, and in the open doorway sat a cross old dame, at her knitting. She had a hump, ears larger than those of the lodge-keeper, and claws hooked like an eagle's.
"What! another of those foolish mortals fallen down our pit!" she cried, angrily; "I have half a mind to kill her on the spot." But Hilda looked so meek and imploring, standing there and saying not a word, that the Grandmother of the Gnomes relented. "Well, well," she grunted, "although she is decidedly overgrown, and has ridiculously small ears, I suppose I may as well try her for a nurse-maid. If she proves unfaithful, there will be plenty to tell of it, and she will soon go the way of all the rest."
Hilda was pleased at the idea of being a nurse-maid, for she always got on well with children. She followed the G. G. (really, if you will excuse me, it will save a great deal of trouble sometimes to abbreviate the old lady's title) inside the queer little house, and there was a room full of owls, bats, toads, mice, and spiders, who came flocking around the new-comer, with every expression of delight.