The little human being turned around.
“Who is crying?” he asked in his chiming voice.
“It’s only me,” stammered Maya. “Excuse me for interrupting you.”
“But why are you crying?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps just because you are so beautiful. Who are you? Oh, do tell me, if I am not asking too much. You are an angel, aren’t you? You must be.”
“Oh, no,” said the little creature, quite serious. “I am only a sprite, a flower-sprite.—But, dear little bee, what are you doing out here in the meadow so late at night?”
The sprite flew over to a curving iris blade beside Maya and regarded her long and kindly from his swaying perch in the moonlight.
Maya told him all about herself, what she had done, what she knew, and what she longed for. And while she spoke, his eyes never left her, those large dark eyes glowing in the white fairy face under the golden hair that ever and anon shone like silver in the moonlight.
When she finished he stroked her head and looked at her so warmly and lovingly that the little bee, beside herself with joy, had to lower her gaze.
“We sprites,” he explained, “live seven nights, but we must stay in the flower in which we are born, else we die at dawn.”