Frisken sprang to his feet with a sort of yell. It was the first time Con had seen him put out, but even now he seemed more terrified than angry. He sat down again, shaking all over.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he gasped; “we never mention such things.”
“But what becomes of you all then—afterwards?” said Con, more discreetly.
Frisken had recovered himself.
“What do you mean by your afters and befores and thens?” he said; “Isn’t now enough for you? What becomes of them? why, what becomes of things up there in that world of yours—where do the leaves and the flowers and the butterflies go to—eh?”
“But they are only things,” persisted Con, “they have no—”
“Hush!” screamed Frisken, “how can you be so ill-mannered? come along, the music is beginning; they are waiting for us to dance.”
But it was with a heavy heart that Con joined the dance. He was beginning to be very tired of this beautiful fairyland, and to wish very much that he could go home to the cottage on the mountain, to his father and mother, even to his lessons! A shudder ran through him as old tales that he had heard or read, and scarcely understood, returned to his mind—of children stolen by the fairies who never went home again till too late, and who then in despair returned to their beautiful prison to become all that was left to them to be, fairies themselves, things, like the flowers and the butterflies—supposing already it was too late for him? quickly as the time had passed, for all he knew, he had been a century in fairyland!
But he had to dance and to sing and to play incessantly like the others. He must not let them suspect his discontent or he would lose all chance of escape. He watched his opportunity for getting more information out of Frisken.
“Do you never go ‘up there?’” he asked him once, using the fairy word for the world he had left, “for a change you know, and to play tricks on people—that must be such fun.”