"I shall bite you with my white tooth if you talk such nonsense," said the field-mouse. "Among all my friends not one of them has such a fine velvet coat as the mole. His cellars are full and his rooms are large. You ought to be glad to marry so well," she ended.
"Was there no escape from the underground home?" little Thumbelina wondered.
The wedding-day came. The mole arrived to fetch his little bride.
How could she say good-by for ever to the beautiful sunshine?
"Farewell, farewell!" she cried, and waved her little hands towards the glorious sun.
"Farewell, farewell!" she cried, and threw her tiny arms round a little red flower growing at her feet.
"Tell the dear swallow, when he comes again," she whispered to the flower, "tell him I will never forget him."
"Tweet, tweet!" what was that Thumbelina heard? "Tweet, tweet!" Could it be the swallow?
The flutter of wings was round her. Little Thumbelina looked. How glad she was, for there, indeed, was the little bird she had tended and cared for so long. She told him, weeping, she must not stay. She must marry the mole and live underground, and never see the sun, the glorious sun.