“That was a lovely story,” she said approvingly. “It will give Rafe and me a lot to talk about. It is so interesting to think what we would wish for if we had the chance.”
“I’m afraid you mustn’t stay with me any longer to talk about it to-day,” said the old woman. “It is quite—time—for you—to go home;” and somehow her voice seemed to grow into a sort of singing, and the needles began to click again, though very faintly, as if heard from some way off.
What was the matter?
Alix felt as if she were going to sleep. She rubbed her eyes, but Rafe’s voice speaking to her quite clearly and distinctly woke her up again.
“Alix,” he was saying, “don’t you see where we are?” and glancing up, she found that she and her brother were sitting on a moss-grown stone in the old garden, not very far from the gate by which the wren had invited them to enter.
It was growing towards evening. Already the “going to bed” feeling seemed about in the air. The birds’ voices came softly; a little chill evening breeze made the children shiver slightly, though it only meant to wish them “good-night.”
“It feels like the end of the story,” said Alix. “Let’s go home, Rafe.”
This was how the next story came to be told.
The days had passed happily for Rafe and Alix; the weather had been very fine and mild, and they had played a great deal in the old garden, which grew lovelier every day.
“I hardly feel as if we had anything to wish for just now,” said Alix, one afternoon, when, tired with playing, she and her brother were resting for a little while on the remains of a rustic bench which they had found in a corner under the trees. “We’ve been so happy lately, Rafe; haven’t we? Ever since that day!”