"Is it—?" she began, "are these the roses that our fairy powder came from?"
Again the robin bent his little head.
"Even so," he replied. "Fairy roses, that never lose their perfume. And you would gladly fill the old jar again, would you not?"
Linde clasped her hands.
"Oh yes, yes!" she exclaimed. "The leaves mean everything to us. Not only food and clothing, but a home—a home for us two together, instead of terrible separation. Oh Robin, darling, may I gather the flowers and dry the leaves, ready for the market? I'd come any day—or every day, to fetch them, and oh how grateful we should be," and the tears rushed to her eyes in her eagerness.
But the redbreast's tone grew grave, and Linde began to tremble with fear that he would say it could not be. But when he spoke again his words surprised her.
"Do you know the story of the forest?" he asked.
"Yes—some part of it, at least. We know that—that—" for she felt his bright eyes fixed upon her, and it made her hesitate, "something very sad happened, and since then, no robins ever come here," she murmured.
"Sad—yes indeed," he repeated, "and worse than sad. Wicked, cruel! A monster in the shape of a boy shot one of our favoured tribe, deservedly favoured, for, as a Christian child you know since when, we have been honoured for our faithful service?"
Linde bowed her head reverently.