THE CHRONICLES OF FAIRY LAND

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MOLLIE AND

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By FERGUS HUME

CHRONICLES OF FAIRYLAND

Illustrated in color by Maria L. Kirk. Decorated

lining papers. Octavo. Ornamental cloth, $1.50.

HANS ANDERSEN’S

FAIRY TALES

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J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

A THRONE OF GREAT WHITE LILIES, UPON WHICH SAT THE KING AND QUEEN OF FAERYLAND—Page [104]

CHRONICLES OF

FAIRY LAND

BY

FERGUS HUME

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR BY

MARIA L. KIRK

AND IN THE TEXT BY

M. DUNLOP

PHILADELPHIA & LONDON

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

1911

COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER, 1911

PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS

PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A.

TO THOSE EARNEST STUDENTS OF FAERY LORE

JOAN AND JACK BURNETT

THESE STORIES

ARE DEDICATED BY THEIR FRIEND

FERGUS HUME

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

A BALLAD OF FAERY TALES

I.

O’er weary earth the twilight falls

The sunset fades from western skies,

Dark shadows dance upon the walls,

As from the hearth red flames arise.

This hour is full of strange surprise,

Of mystic stories sweet and grand;

And children hear with shining eyes

These Chronicles of Faeryland.

II.

So, children, gather round my knee,

And list to tales of old romance;

With stories of the land and sea

I’ll make your eyes with pleasure dance.

And if the fays are kind, perchance

You’ll see in dreams the elfish band,

Whene’er you hear with wond’ring glance

These Chronicles of Faeryland.

III.

The rugged caves where giants dwell;

The dragons guarding gems and gold;

Fair ladies who by magic spell

Are held enchained in castles old;

The handsome princes, brave and bold,

Who cross the moat by drawbridge spanned:

Such tales and more will now unfold

These Chronicles of Faeryland.

Envoi.

Then, children, leave your books and toys,

And come to this enchanted strand;

I tell for happy girls and boys

These Chronicles of Faeryland.

King Oberon’s Library.

IT was after dinner, I think, as I was seated in my arm-chair before the fire, tired out with hard work, and therefore half asleep. All day long it had been snowing hard, and even now, at seven o’clock in the evening, it was still coming down in great white flakes, making the earth look like a beautiful birthday cake. There was no light in the room, except the red glimmer of the fire that flickered and flared on the wide hearth, roaring up the great chimney, as if it was grumbling to itself at having to go out into the cold, cold night.

Now, I am very fond of the firelight in a dark room at such an hour, for it casts strange shadows, which put strange fancies into my head, and I tell these strange fancies to good children, which pleases them very much. For the children I tell them to are very wise, and believe in these strange fancies, calling them faery tales, as indeed they are. Grown-up people do not believe in faery tales, which is a great pity, because there are many good and beautiful stories told of the faeries, which make people who really understand them better and wiser. But all children understand them because all children know that Faeryland exists, and, therefore, the strange fancies called faery tales must necessarily be true.

Well, as I said before, I was seated half-asleep in my arm-chair in the dark, watching the fire burning merrily on the hearth, and sending out great shafts of red light to explore dark corners, where goblins are fond of lurking. On the roof and on the wall danced the firelight shadows in the most amusing manner; but they are foolish folk these same shadows, belonging to the strange Kingdom of Shadowland, which lies near the realm of Faery; yet not mingling with it in any way, for in Faeryland, as wise children know, there are no shadows at all.

I grew tired watching the shadow-dance, so, letting my chin sink on my breast, I stared into the red hollows and burning caverns made by the flames among the logs of wood. There I saw all kinds of curious things,—turreted castles, which held enchanted princesses, broad red plains, across which journeyed brave knights in armour, to deliver those same princesses, and huge rocky caverns wherein dwelt cruel magicians, who try to stop the brave knights from reaching the enchanted castles. I saw all these things in the fire, and you can see them also, if you look steadily into the flames at night-time, because then everything is under the spell of faery power. But you must believe very hard indeed, as you look, for the faeries will not let their country be seen by children who doubt that the beautiful land exists.

There were some twigs on the logs still bearing a few withered leaves, but, being out of reach of the fire, they were not burnt up; nevertheless the flames made them quiver with their hot breath, just as if they were still being shaken by the cool breeze of the forest.

Now, while I was looking at the shaking of the withered leaves, a cricket began to chirp, and, whether it was the magic of the darkness, or the influence of the faeries, I do not know, but I understood every word of the song the cricket sang. Oh, it was really a famous singer, that merry cricket, and the song it sang went something after this fashion.

THE CRICKET’S SONG.

You can only hear my voice;

But you cannot see me.

Oh, would not your heart rejoice,

If you could but be me!

Thro’ the sultry summer hours

My shrill voice was ringing;

Now, when cold has killed the flowers,

By the fire I’m singing.

You don’t understand my song,

Tho’ so bright and airy;

For to mortals you belong,

You are not a faery.

Living now the earth upon,

Oft my life’s imperilled;

But at court of Oberon,

I’m the faeries’ herald.

If you caught me you would say,

“In the fire stick it;

In the house it shall not stay,

Noisy, noisy cricket.”

Therefore by the Faery King,

I to hide am bidden,

And you only hear me sing

When I’m closely hidden

First of all, it sounded as if only one cricket was singing, then a second seemed to join in, afterwards a third and fourth, until the whole forest appeared to be full of crickets.

Forest?—yes!—I was now in an old, old forest, for, as I listened to the cricket’s song, the twigs on the logs became fresh and green, then seemed to grow larger and larger, until they hid the red light of the fire, and branched out with great leafy boughs into the room. I looked up in surprise, and saw the green branches, high above my head, waving in the soft wind, and I could hear the singing of unseen birds sound through the chirping of the crickets. Under my feet, instead of a carpet, there was now fresh green turf covered with daisies, and my arm-chair was a chair no longer, but the mossy trunk of a fallen tree. The red light glimmered behind the leaves, as though the fire was still there, but I knew in some strange way that it was not the fire, but the crimson glare of the sunset. A great wave of phantasy seemed to roll through the forest, and I started to my feet, as the crickets finished singing, with a curious sense of wonderful knowledge and vague longings.

“Dear me!” I said to myself; “this must be Faeryland.”

“Yes, it is Faeryland,” piped a shrill voice, which seemed to come from the ground. “This is the Forest of Enchantment.”

“YES, IT IS FAERYLAND,” PIPED A SHRILL VOICE

I looked down without astonishment, for in Faeryland no one is astonished at the strange things which take place, and saw an old, old little man, with a long white beard, sitting astride the stem of a flower, which kept swaying up and down like a rocking-horse. He was dressed in bright green, with the inverted purple cup of a Canterbury bell on his head, and if he had not spoken I would not have known he was there, so much did his clothes and cap resemble the surrounding green grass and coloured flowers.

“Goblin?” I asked quickly; for, you see, he looked so old and ugly that I thought he must be one of the underground faeries.

“I’m not a goblin,” he replied in an angry, shrill voice, like the wind whistling through a keyhole. “It is very rude of you to call me a goblin—a nasty thing who lives under the earth, and only cares for gold and silver. I’m a faery—a very celebrated faery indeed.”

“But you wear a beard,” I said doubtfully; “faeries don’t wear beards.”

“Not all faeries,” he answered, with dignity, jumping down from his swaying flower stem; “but I do, because I am the librarian of King Oberon.”

“Dear me! I did not know he had a library. Do let me see it!”

“You see it now,” said the librarian, waving his hand; “look at all the books.”

I looked round, but saw nothing except a circle of trees, whose great boughs, meeting overhead, made a kind of leafy roof, through which could be seen the faint, rosy flush of the sunset sky. The ground, as I said before, was covered with daisy-sprinkled turf, and there was a still pool of shining water in the centre, upon the bosom of which floated large white lilies.

“I must say I don’t see anything except leaves,” I said, after a pause.

“Well—those are the books.”

“Oh, are they! Well, I know books have leaves, but I didn’t know leaves were books.”

The faery looked puzzled.

“You must have some faery blood in you,” he said at length, “or you would never have found your way into this forest; but you don’t seem to have enough of the elfin nature to see all the wonders of Faeryland.”

“Oh, do let me see the wonders of Faeryland!” I asked eagerly; “now that I am here, I want to see everything.”

“No doubt you do,” retorted the faery, with a provoking smile; “but I don’t know if the King will let you—however, I’ll ask him when he wakes.”

“Is he asleep?” I said in astonishment; “why, it’s day-time.”

“It’s day-time with you, not with us,” answered the librarian; “the night is the day of the faeries—and see, there’s the sun rising.”

Looking up through the fretwork of boughs and leaves, I saw the great silver shield of the moon trembling in the dark blue sky, from whence all the sunset colours had died away.

“But that’s the moon,” I cried, laughing.

“The moon is our sun, stupid,” he said tartly. “I think the King will be awake now, so I’ll ask him if you can see the books.”

He vanished,—I don’t know how; for, though I did not take my eyes off him, he seemed to fade away, and in his place I saw the green leaves and slender stem of a flower, with the Canterbury bell nodding on the top.

The only thing I could do was to wait, so I sat down again on the fallen tree, and amused myself with looking round to see what kind of creatures lived in Faeryland.

The night was very still,—no sound of cricket or bird, not even the whisper of the wind, or the splash of water,—all was silent, and the moon, looking down through the leaves, flooded the glade with a cold, pale light, turning the still waters of the pool to a silver mirror, upon which slept the great white lilies.

Suddenly, a bat, whirring through the glade, disappeared in the soft dusk of the trees, then I heard the distant “Tu whit, tu whoo” of an owl, which seemed to break the spell of the night, and awaken the sleeping faeries; for all at once, on every side, I heard a confused murmur, the glow-worms lighted their glimmering lamps on the soft mossy banks, and brilliant fireflies flashed like sparkling stars through the perfumed air.

Then a nightingale began to sing; I could not see the bird, but only heard the lovely music gushing from amid the dim gloom of the leaves, filling the whole forest with exquisite strains. I understood the nightingale’s song just as well as I did that of the cricket, but what it sang was much more beautiful.

THE NIGHTINGALE’S SONG.

The Day has furled

Her banners red,

And all the world

Lies cold and dead;

All light and gladness fled.

Asleep!—asleep,

In slumber deep,

Are maid and boy;

And grief and joy,

And pleasures—pains

Are bound—fast bound in slumber’s chains.

Ah, slumbers keep

The maid who sighs,

The boy who cries,

The bee that flies,

In charmèd sleep.

See how the moon shines in the sky

Her light so pale,

O’er hill and dale;

O’er dale and hill,

So calm and still,

In splendour flinging;

And Mother Earth,

At her bright birth,

Hears me the night-bird singing.

’Tis I!

Who in the darkness cry;

The nightingale who sings, who sings on high.

I call the elves

To show themselves;

They creep from tree, from grass, from flower;

In forest-bower

At midnight hour,

They dance—they dance,

All night so bright—so light;

While I the woods with song entrance.

Singing—Singing,

My voice is ringing

Thro’ the still leaves,

Till all the dark night heaves

With pain—with pain

Again—oh, sing again;

Bring joy—bring tears,

Till o’er the lawn

The red, red dawn

Appears—appears—appears.

While the nightingale was thus singing in such a capricious manner, paying no attention to metre or rhyme, the whole glade changed, but I was so entranced with the bird music, that I did not notice the transformation until I found myself in a splendid hall with a lofty ceiling, seated on a couch of green velvet. The trees around were now tall slender pillars of white marble, and between them hung long curtains of emerald velvet. The pool was still in the centre, with its broad white water-lilies asleep on its breast, but it was now encircled by a rim of white marble, and reflected, not the blue sky, but an azure ceiling, upon which fantastic patterns in gold reminded me somewhat of the intricate traceries of the trees. High up in the oval ceiling, in place of the moon, there hung a large opaque globe, from whence a soft, cool light radiated through the apartment.

As I was looking at all these beautiful things, I heard a soft laugh, and, on turning round, saw a man of my own height, dressed in robes of pale green, with a sweeping white beard, a purple cap on his head, and a long slender staff in his hands.

“You don’t know me?” he said in a musical voice. “My name is Phancie, and I am the librarian of the King.”

“Were you the faery?” I asked, looking at him.

“I am always a faery,” he replied, smiling. “You saw me as I generally appear to mortals; but, as the King has given you permission to learn some of the secrets of Faeryland, I now appear to you in my real form.”

“So this is the King’s library?” I said, looking round; “but how did I come here?—or rather, how did the glade change to the library?”

“The glade has not changed at all,” said Phancie quietly; “it is still around you, but your eyes have been unsealed, and you now see beneath the surface.”

“But I don’t understand,” I observed, feeling perplexed.

“It is difficult,” assented Phancie gravely, “but I can show you what I mean by an illustration. When you see a grub, it only looks to your eyes an ugly brown thing; but my eyes can see below the outside skin, to where a beautiful butterfly is lying with folded wings of red and gold. The glade you saw was, so to speak, the skin of the library. Now, your sight has been made keen by the command of the King. You see this splendid room—it is still the glade, and still the room; only it depends upon your sight being lightened or darkened.”

“It doesn’t look a bit like the glade.”

“You don’t think so, of course,” said Phancie kindly; “but I will explain. The white pillars are the trunks of the trees; the green curtains between are the green leaves; the ceiling is the blue sky; the white globe that gives light is the moon; and the golden fretwork on the ceiling is the leaves and boughs of the trees shining against the clear sky.”

“And the books?” I asked quickly.

“Here are the books,” he replied, drawing one of the green curtains a little on one side, and there I saw rows of volumes in brown covers, which reminded me somewhat of the tint of the withered leaves.

“You can stay here as long as you like,” said Phancie, dropping the curtain, “and read all the books.”

“Oh, I can’t stay long enough for that,” I said regretfully. “I would be missed from my house.”

“No, you would not,” he replied. “Time in Faeryland is different from time on earth—five minutes with you means five years with us—so if you stay here thirty years, you will only have been away from earth half an hour.”

“But I’m afraid”—

“Still unconvinced!” interrupted Phancie, a little sadly, leading me forward to the pool of water. “You mortals never believe anything but what you see with your own eyes—look!”

He waved his white wand, and the still surface of the water quivered as if a breeze had rippled across it; then it became still again, and I saw my own room, and myself seated asleep in the arm-chair in front of a dull red fire. I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I looked again the vision had vanished.

“How is it my body is there and I am here?” I asked, turning to Phancie.

“What you saw is your earthly body,” he said quietly, “but the form you now wear is your real body—like the butterfly and the grub of which I told you. Now, you can look at the books. You will not remember all you read, because there are some thoughts you may not carry back to earth; but the King will let you remember seven stories which you can tell to the children of your world. They will believe them, but you—ah! you will say they are dreams.”

“Oh no, I won’t,” I said eagerly, “because it would not be true. This is not a dream.”

“No, it is not a dream,” he said sadly; “but you will think it to be so.”

“Never!”

“Oh yes, you will. Mortals never believe.”

I turned angrily away at this remark, but when I looked again to reply, Phancie had vanished—faded away like a wreath of snow in the sunshine, and I was alone in the beautiful room.

Oh, it was truly a famous library, containing the most wonderful books in the world, but none of which I had seen before, except the faery tales. In one recess I found the lost six books of Spenser’s Faerie Queene, the last tales told by Chaucer’s Canterbury Pilgrims, the end of Coleridge’s Christabel, some forgotten plays of Shakespeare, and many other books which had been lost on earth, or which the authors had failed to complete. I learned afterwards that they finished their earthly works in Faeryland, and that none of the books they had written during their lives were in the library, but only those they had not written.

You will not know the names of the books I have mentioned, because you are not old enough to understand them but when you grow up, you will, no doubt, read them all—not the faery books, of course, but all the others which the men I mention have written.

In another recess I found nothing but faery tales—Jack and the Beanstalk, The White Cat, The Yellow Dwarf, and many others, which were all marked The Chronicles of Faeryland.

I do not know how long I was in the library, because there was no day or night, but only the soft glow of the moon-lamp shining through the room. I read many, many of the books, and they were full of the most beautiful stories, which all children would love to hear; but, as Phancie said, I only remember seven, and these seven I will now relate.

I hope you will like them very much, for they are all true stories in which the faeries took part, and there is more wisdom in them than you would think.

The faeries understand them, and so do I, because I have faery blood in my veins; but many grown-up people who read them will laugh, and say they are only amusing fables. The wise children, however, who read carefully and slowly will find out the secrets they contain, and these secrets are the most beautiful things in the world.

So now I have told you how I was permitted to enter Faeryland, I will relate the stories I remember which I read in the faery palace, and the clever child who finds out the real meanings of these stories will perhaps some day receive an invitation from King Oberon to go to Faeryland and see all the wonders of his beautiful library.

THE RED ELF

I.
HOW THE RED ELF RAN AWAY FROM FAERYLAND.

FAERYLAND lies between the Kingdom of the Shadows and the Country of the Giants. If you want to reach it you must sail across the Sea of Darkness, which rolls everlastingly round these three strange places, and separates them from our world. Then you journey first through the Giants’ Country, the inhabitants of which are very like ourselves, only larger and fiercer, with very little spiritual nature in their enormous bodies; afterwards you pass into Faeryland, where the elves are bright, graceful creatures, who possess forms like ours, and not a little of our nature. Beyond lies the strange Kingdom of Shadows, where dwell things which have very little in common with our earth; they are the shadows of the past and the future, of what has been, and what yet shall be. Mortals have strayed by chance into the Giants’ Country, and in old stories we are told they have lived in Faeryland, but no living man or woman has ever seen the Kingdom of Shadows, nor will they ever see it during life.

Now, the Faeries, being afraid of the Shadows, never enter their kingdom, but they also never enter the Country of the Giants, because they despise them very much as being lower than themselves, much the same as we look down upon the uncivilised savages of Africa. Oberon, who, as you know, is the King of Faery, made a law that no elf should ever go into the Giants’ Country, being afraid lest the faeries should learn things there which would bring evil on his own land. So when the faeries want to visit our earth, they do not cross the Giants’ Country, but come in another way which is known only to themselves. Having thus explained how these three countries lie, I will now tell you of a naughty elf who, disobeying the King’s command, lost himself in the Giants’ Country, and of the difficulty he had in getting back to Faeryland.

The elf’s name was Gillydrop, a beautiful little creature all dressed in clothes of a pale green tint, which is the favourite colour of the faeries, as every one knows who has seen them dance in the moonlight. Now Gillydrop was full of curiosity, which is a very bad thing, as it leads people into a great deal of trouble, and although he had never bothered his head about the Giants’ Country before, as soon as he heard the proclamation of Oberon he immediately determined to see for himself what the giants were like. Do you not think this was a very naughty thing for him to do? it certainly was, but he was punished for his disobedience, as all naughty people are sooner or later.

He spoke to two or three faeries in order to get them to join him, but they would not disobey the King’s command, and advised him to give up his foolish idea.

“The King is very wise,” they said, “and no doubt he has a good reason for not letting us visit the Giants’ Country, so you ought to do as he tells you.”

“I don’t care,” replied naughty Gillydrop; “I’m sure there is something in the Giants’ Country the King does not want us to know, and I am determined to find out what it is.”

So, in spite of all warnings, he spread his beautiful wings, which were spotted silver and blue, like a white-clouded sky, and flew away through the woods. It was night-time, for, of course, that is the faeries’ day, but the way to Giants’ Country was so long that by the time he reached the end of the forest, and came to the boundary of Faeryland, the red dawn was breaking, so he crept into the bosom of a rose, and, after getting a honey supper from a friendly bumble-bee, curled himself up to sleep.

All through the long day, while the sun was high in the blue sky, he slept, lulled by the swaying of the flower, which rocked like a cradle, and soothed by the whisper of the wind and the buzzing of the bees as they hummed round his rose-house.

At last the weary, hot day came to an end, the silver moon arose in the dark blue sky, the wind sighing through the forest made the delicate leaves tremble with its cool breath, and the elf awoke. He left the kind rose, which had sheltered him in her golden heart from the heat of the day, and flew towards the rippling stream which lies on the confines of Faeryland. Away in the distance, he could hear the murmuring laughter of the faeries, as they danced to the sound of elfin music, but he was too anxious to get into the Giants’ Country to trouble himself about his old friends.

Just as he was about to cross the boundary, the leaves of the Faery forest sighed out the word “Beware!” but, not heeding the warning, he flew across the stream, and found himself at last in the terrible country where dwelt the foolish giants and the evil ogres. As he alighted upon an enormous daisy, which was as large as a mushroom, a voice rang out from Faeryland, full and clear, like the sound of a beautiful bell:

“Never more come back you need,

Till you’ve done some kindly deed.”

And so when Gillydrop looked back, he saw no green banks, no tall trees, no beautiful flowers, but only a wide grey ocean sleeping in sullen stillness under the cold light of the moon.

He was now flying over a dreary waste plain, with great circles of upright stones standing here and there, and a bitter cold wind blowing shrilly across the flat country towards the sullen grey sea. Had he not been able to fly, he would never have crossed the plain, because the grass stood up like mighty spears, and the furze bushes were like great trees. On every side he saw immense mountains, blue in the distance, lifting their snowy summits to the clouds, with great trees at their foot looking like enormous hills of leaves. There were no birds flying in the cold air, and no animals crawling on the bleak earth; everything seemed dead and silent, except the wind, which moaned through the mighty trees like the roaring of oceans.

There are no towns in Giantland, because the giants are not very fond of one another, and prefer to live by themselves in lonely castles among the mountains. Gillydrop knew this, but, although he looked on every side, he could see no sign of any castle, until at last he suddenly came on one which was quite in ruins, and so tumbled down that no one could possibly dwell in it. He flew on, feeling rather afraid, and came to another castle, also in ruins, with a huge white skeleton lying at the foot of a high tower, which was no doubt the skeleton of the giant who had lived there.

Then he found a third, a fourth, a fifth castle, all deserted and in ruins. It seemed as though all the giants were dead, and Gillydrop, in despair at the sight of such desolation, was about to fly back to Faeryland, when he suddenly thought of the voice which had said:

“Never more come back you need,

Till you’ve done some kindly deed.”

Poor Gillydrop was now in a dreadful plight, and, folding his weary wings, he dropped to the ground, where he sat in the hollow of a buttercup, which was like a large golden basin, and wept bitterly. He could never return to Faeryland until he had done some kindly deed, but, as there was no one to whom he could do a good deed, he did not see how he could perform any, so cried dreadfully at the thought of living for evermore in the desolate Giants’ Country. So you see what his disobedience had brought him to, for, instead of dancing merrily with his friends in the Forest of Faeryland, he was seated, a poor, lonely little elf, in a dreary, dreary land, with no one to comfort him.

While he was thus weeping, he heard a sound like distant thunder; but, as there were no clouds in the sky, he knew it could not be thunder.

“It must be a giant roaring,” said Gillydrop, drying his eyes with a cobweb. “I’ll go and ask him where all his friends have gone.”

So he flew away in the direction from whence came the sound, and speedily arrived at a great grey castle, with many towers and battlements, perched on the top of a very high hill. At its foot rolled the Sea of Darkness, and round the tall towers the white mists were wreathed like floating clouds. There was a wide road winding up the steep sides of the rock to the castle door, which was as high as a church; but Gillydrop, having wings, did not use the road, so flew right into the castle through an open window.

The giant, whose name was Dunderhead, sat at one end of a large hall, cutting slices of bread from an enormous loaf which lay on the table in front of him. He looked thin,—very, very thin,—as though he had not had a good dinner for a long time; and he thumped the table with the handle of his knife as he sang this song, taking a large bit of bread between every verse:

THE GIANT’S SONG.

Oh, if my life grows harder,

I’ll wish that I were dead!

There’s nothing in the larder

Except this crust of bread.

With hunger I am starving,

And it would give me joy

If just now I was carving

A little girl or boy.

I’ve drunk up all the coffee,

I’ve eaten all the lamb,

I’ve swallowed all the toffee

And finished all the jam.

I want to get some plum-cake—

I only wish I could;

For if I can’t get some cake

I’ll die for want of food.

Here Dunderhead stopped singing with a roar of pain, for while cutting himself some more bread, the knife slipped and gashed his hand in a most terrible manner. A great spout of blood gushed out like a torrent and settled into a dark red pool on the table, while the giant, roaring with anger, wrapped up his wounded hand in his handkerchief, which was as large as a tablecloth.

“What are you crying about, giant?” asked Gillydrop, who had perched himself on the table, where he sat, looking like a green beetle.

“I’ve cut my finger,” said the giant in a sulky tone; “you’d cry, too, if you cut your finger. Don’t call me a giant—my name is Mr. Dunderhead. What is your name?”

“Gillydrop. I’m a faery.”

“I thought you were a beetle,” said Dunderhead crossly. “What do you want here?”

“I’ve come to see the giants, Mr. Dunderhead,” replied Gillydrop.

“You won’t see any, then,” said Dunderhead, making a face. “They’re all dead except me. I’m the last of the giants. You see, we ate up every boy and girl that lived near us, and all the sheep, and all the cattle, until there was nothing left to eat; and as none of us could cross the Sea of Darkness, every one died except me, and I won’t live long—this loaf is all I’ve got to eat.”

“Perhaps if I do a kindly deed to Dunderhead by getting him a meal, I’ll be able to go back to Faeryland,” thought Gillydrop, as he listened to the giant’s story.

“Well, what are you thinking about?” growled Dunderhead, cutting himself another slice of bread.

“I was thinking how I could get you some food,” replied Gillydrop.

“What! you?” roared the giant; “a little thing like you get me food! Ha, ha, ha!” and he thumped the table with his great fist.

Now, as he did this, everything on the table jumped up with the shock, and so did Gillydrop, who had no time to spread his wings and prevent himself falling; so when he fell he came down splash into the pool of blood. He gave a cry of terror when he fell in, and after crawling out with some difficulty, he found his beautiful green clothes were all red, just as if he had been dipped in red ink.

The rude giant laughed heartily at the poor elf’s plight, but to Gillydrop it was no laughing matter, for there is nothing the faeries dislike so much as the colour red.

“Oh dear, dear, dear!” sighed Gillydrop, while the tears ran down his face; “now I’ll never go back to Faeryland.”

THE RUDE GIANT LAUGHED HEARTILY AT THE POOR ELF’S PLIGHT

“Why not?” asked Dunderhead, who was still eating.

“Because my clothes are red,” replied the elf ruefully; “no one who wears red clothes is allowed to live in Faeryland. Cannot I clean my clothes?”

“No,” answered the giant, taking a bit out of the loaf. “You are dyed red with my blood, and the only way to get your clothes green again is to wash them in my tears.”

“Oh, let me do it at once!” cried Gillydrop, jumping up and down with delight. “Do cry, Mr. Giant, please do.”

“I can’t cry when I’m told to,” growled Dunderhead; “but if you go to earth and bring me two nice fat children for supper, I’ll weep tears of joy, and then you can wash in my tears and become a green beetle again.”

“But how am I to bring the children here?” asked Gillydrop, who never thought of the poor children being eaten, but only how he could get his emerald suit once more.

“That’s your business,” growled Dunderhead crossly, for you see he had eaten all the loaf, and was still hungry. “I’m going to sleep, so if you want to clean your clothes, bring me the children, and you can wash in the tears of joy I shed.”

So saying, the giant leaned back in his chair and fell fast asleep, snoring so loudly that the whole room shook.

Poor Gillydrop, in his red clothes, spread his red wings, and, alighting on the beach of the Sea of Darkness, he wondered how he was to cross it, for he knew he was too feeble to fly all the way.

“Oh, I wish I hadn’t been naughty!” he said to himself. “I’ll never see my dear Faeryland again.”

And he cried red tears, which is a most wonderful thing, even for a faery to do. It was no use crying, however, for crying helps no one; so he looked about for a boat to carry him across the Sea of Darkness, but no boat could he see.

Gillydrop was almost in despair, when suddenly the sun arose in the east, and a broad shaft of yellow light shot across the Sea of Darkness like a golden bridge.

On seeing this, the Red Elf clapped his hands with glee, for, being a faery, he could easily run along a sunbeam; so, without waiting a moment, he jumped on to the broad golden path, and ran rapidly across the Sea of Darkness, which heaved in black billows below.

II.
HOW THE ELF BROUGHT THE GIANT’S SUPPER.

As the sun grew stronger, the beam shot farther and farther across the Sea of Darkness, until it quite bridged it over, and you may be sure Gillydrop ran as hard as ever he could, so as to reach earth quickly. It was lucky he did make haste, for, just as he alighted on a green lawn near a village, the sun hid himself behind a cloud, and of course the beam vanished.

Having thus arrived, Gillydrop began to look about for two naughty children to take to the Giants’ Country for Dunderhead’s supper. He was very tired, both with his journey across the Sea of Darkness, and with being up all day, which was just the same to him as staying up all night would be to us. As he was anxious to get back to Faeryland, there was no time to be lost, so, instead of going to sleep, he searched all through the village for two naughty children.

Now, in one of the pretty cottages there lived a poor widow, who had two children called Teddy and Tilly, of whom she was very fond, as they were all she had in the world to love. I am sorry to say, however, that Teddy and Tilly were not worthy of their mother’s love, for they were very naughty indeed, and never so happy as when engaged in some mischief. Dame Alice, for that was the name of the poor widow, tried very hard to improve them, but it was really a waste of time, for the harder she tried the worse they became. They tore their nice clean clothes, worried the cat, destroyed the flowers, ate up everything they could lay their hands on, and altogether were a great trouble to their poor mother, who often wondered why her children were so much worse than any one else’s. Dame Alice, however, had still some hope that they would improve, for, having a few friends among the faeries, she had learned that some day both Teddy and Tilly would receive a severe lesson, which would make them the best and most obedient children in the world.

There was a wood, not far from the village, which was said to be enchanted, and Teddy and Tilly were told never to enter it, but this command only made them the more anxious to disobey, and they constantly wandered about the wood, never thinking of the faeries, nor of anything else, except their own pleasure. On the day Gillydrop arrived, they had been in the wood all day, gathering nuts and chasing the squirrels. Now, as it was sundown, they were coming home to their supper, quarrelling dreadfully all the way, which was very naughty of them after spending a pleasant day.

Gillydrop heard them calling each other names, so he peeped out from behind the leaf of a tree, where he was hidden, and, seeing their cross faces, he immediately guessed that they were two children who would do capitally for Dunderhead’s supper, so at once made up his mind how to act.

It was now night, and, as the faeries say, night is caused by the overflowing of the Sea of Darkness, which rises and rises when the sun goes down, until it rolls all over the earth, and any one abroad during the night is in danger of being lost in its black waves. At dawn, however, the sea subsides, and vanishes altogether when the sun appears; but when he sets in the west, it rises once more and spreads over the earth.

Gillydrop had brought with him a withered leaf from the Giants’ Country, which, being enchanted, would expand into a boat, and sail across the Sea of Darkness to the Giants’ Country, for, having come from there, it was bound to return to the tree upon which it had grown.

The Red Elf took this leaf out of his pocket, and immediately it spread out into a great brown carpet, which he placed under a tree in the darkest part, and then went away to entice the children on to it.

Teddy and Tilly came through the wood, quarrelling in a noisy manner, and calling each other ugly names; not a bit afraid of the dark, although they certainly ought to have been.

“You’re eating all the nuts,” bellowed Teddy.

“Well, I gathered them,” shrieked Tilly.

“No, you didn’t; I got most,” whimpered her brother crossly.

“Oh, you story! You didn’t,” retorted Tilly.

And then they called each other more ugly names, and fought and scratched until the whole wood resounded with their noise, and the birds trembled in their nests with fear.

Suddenly, in front of them, they saw a small red ball, glowing like a scarlet coal, and it kept dancing up and down like a restless will-o’-the-wisp.

“Oh, Teddy,” cried Tilly, “look at that pretty ball!”

“It’s mine!” roared greedy Teddy, rushing forward. “I’ll have it.”

“You shan’t!” cried Tilly, running after him. “I’ll get it.”

But the red ball—which was none other than Gillydrop—rolled and rolled in front of the children through the dark wood, and led them deeper and deeper into the forest, until it bounded right on to a brown carpet lying under a great tree, where it lay glowing like a red-hot coal. Teddy and Tilly jumped on to the brown carpet with a scream of delight, thinking they would now seize the ball, when suddenly the sides of the brown leaf curled up, and it lengthened out into a long boat. The darkness under it grew thicker and thicker, the foliage of the tree above vanished, and the two naughty children found themselves in a boat, rolling and tossing on the black waves, with a gloomy, starless sky above them. Away at the end of the boat sat Gillydrop, who had now unrolled himself, and was guiding the magic skiff across the Sea of Darkness towards the Country of the Giants.

“Oh, I want to go home!” cried Tilly, now very frightened.

“And so do I!” roared Teddy, sitting close to her.

As they said this, they both heard a mocking ripple of laughter, and saw the Red Elf dancing with glee at the end of the boat.

“You’ll never go home again,” he cried mockingly, “because you have been naughty, and must be punished.”

“I’ll never be naughty again,” sobbed Tilly.

“No more will I,” echoed Teddy; and they both wept bitterly.

“It’s too late now,” said Gillydrop, shaking his head. “Naughty children always get punished.”

He might have said the same thing about himself; but then he was a faery, and felt ashamed to tell two human beings that he had been as naughty as themselves.

Teddy and Tilly cried dreadfully as they thought of their poor mother waiting for them at home, and of the nice supper of bread and milk which she had prepared for them; but their tears were all of no avail, for the magic boat sailed on and on, though how it moved without sails or oars they could not tell.

At last they saw a faint silver light away in the distance, and a cool breeze blew steadily against them. The light grew larger and larger until it spread everywhere, and they saw the shores of the Giants’ Country, with Dunderhead’s great castle hovering above them. The boat ran right up on to the beach, and then, suddenly turning into a leaf, contracted to a small size and flew away to another beech, but this time the beech was a tree.

The Red Elf vanished as soon as the leaf, and Teddy and Tilly, finding themselves alone in this dreary land, began to cry loudly. It would have been better for them if they had held their tongues, for Dunderhead, hearing two children crying, knew at once that the elf had brought them for his supper, and came down to seize them before they could get away.

“Ah! this is the supper my friend the elf has brought me,” he roared, picking up the children. “I’m so pleased! Now I’ll boil them.”

You may be sure that Teddy and Tilly were in a dreadful fright on hearing this, as they did not want to be boiled; but, in spite of all their cries, Dunderhead took them up to the great hall of his castle, and set them down on the table.

They were so fat and juicy that the Giant cried tears of joy at the prospect of having a good supper, and as his tears gushed out in a great torrent, Gillydrop, who had been waiting for this, plunged into the torrent to get his clothes cleaned again. Much to his dismay, however, the more he washed in the hot tears, the redder grew his clothes, until he was just the colour of the scarlet bean blossom.

“You told me a story,” said Gillydrop to the giant when he saw how red he was getting.

“I know I did,” said Dunderhead, drying his eyes, for he had now wept enough, and was growing hungry; “but if I hadn’t told you a story, I wouldn’t have got any supper. You’ll never be green again, so don’t trouble your head. I’m going to get some wood to cook these nice fat children.”

On hearing this, Teddy and Tilly roared like bulls, and Gillydrop roared too, for he was afraid he would never be able to go back to Faeryland in his red clothes; but the giant only laughed at them, and went out to light a fire under his big kettle.

Gillydrop was naturally very cross with the giant for having deceived him, and determined to punish him for having done so. Bringing the two children to Dunderhead for his supper could not be the kindly deed he had to do, or else he would have turned green again; so Gillydrop made up his mind to take Teddy and Tilly back to earth, and thus leave Dunderhead without his supper. While he was thus making up his mind, seated at one end of the table, the two children, seated at the other end, were crying bitterly at the plight in which they now found themselves, for it certainly is not a nice thing to be boiled for an ogre’s supper.

“Poor mother!” wailed Tilly, weeping; “she’ll miss us so much.”

“I don’t know if she will,” replied Teddy dolefully; “we’ve always been so naughty, I daresay she’ll be glad we’ve gone.”

“Oh no, she won’t,” said Tilly, nodding her head; “she loves us too much for that; but if we could get back I’d be so good.”

“And so would I,” cried Teddy; and then they both wept again, while Gillydrop, seeing their tears, wept also out of sheer sympathy.

“Perhaps the giant will only eat one of us,” said Tilly after a pause; “so while one of us is boiling, the other must run away and go back to comfort mother.”

“Who will be boiled?” asked Teddy sadly. “Will you, Tilly?”

“I don’t like being boiled,” answered Tilly, with a shudder. “I’m sure it isn’t nice.”

“Well, I don’t like being boiled either,” observed Teddy. “Suppose we draw lots who is to run away.”

“Yes, that would be fair,” said Tilly, drying her eyes; “and the one who wins must go back to cheer mother.”

Gillydrop was quite sorry now that he had brought them for Dunderhead’s supper, when he heard how they regretted their mother; so he made up his mind to save them.

“You shall neither of you be boiled,” he said, walking up to them across the table, which was like a large plain. “I will take you back to your mother.”

“But how?” asked Teddy and Tilly, both together. “We cannot go back across the sea alone.”

“Oh yes, you can,” replied the Red Elf. “I brought you here, and can send you back; that is, if I only had a leaf.”

“Here is one,” cried Tilly eagerly, pulling a faded leaf out of her pocket. “I picked it up in the wood to-day, it had such pretty red and yellow colours.”

“Oh, that will do for a boat,” said Gillydrop joyfully.

“But it’s so small,” objected Teddy.

“I’ll make it large enough,” said the elf. “You’ll see.”

“But how can we go on without sails or oars?” said Tilly timidly.

“You don’t need any,” rejoined Gillydrop, laughing; “you know every tree has power to draw back its own leaves. The boat we came in was a leaf, and, as soon as it was launched on the air, it went straight back to the tree in the Country of the Giants upon which it had grown; and as this leaf comes from a tree on earth, it will go straight back to its tree.”

“Then we can get home,” cried Tilly, clapping her hands, “for the tree isn’t far from mother’s cottage.”

“Mind, you are never to be naughty again,” said Gillydrop solemnly.

“Oh, no, no!” cried both children.

“And be very, very good to your mother.”

“Yes, yes! We’ll be very good.”

“Then go down to the beach by the path,” said Gillydrop, spreading his wings. “I’ll fly down and get the boat ready; be quick, or the giant will return.”

Then he flew away through the open window, and Teddy scrambled down the steep path, followed by Tilly, both of them in a great fright lest the giant should catch sight of them and pop them into his big kettle. When they reached the beach, they found Gillydrop had launched the leaf, which had now been transformed into a beautiful red and yellow coloured boat.

“Good-bye,” said Gillydrop, as soon as they were comfortably seated in the boat. “I’m sorry I brought you here, but it will do you no harm, as it will teach you to be good. Mind you don’t quarrel in the boat—if you do, the leaf will vanish, and you’ll sink for ever in the black waves.”

“Oh, we’ll be very, very good,” promised both the children eagerly, and then Gillydrop gave the boat a push, so that it moved rapidly away from the land, leaving him seated on the beach, a lonely little red figure.

Teddy and Tilly were rather afraid at finding themselves alone in the darkness, but they kissed one another, and fell asleep, while the leaf-boat sailed rapidly over the Sea of Darkness towards its parent tree. When the children awoke, they found themselves lying on the ground under the tree, and there above them was their red and yellow boat, hanging, a red and yellow leaf, on a high bough.

“Now we’ll go home,” cried Tilly, jumping up; “now we’ll go home to mother.”

“And be very good,” said Teddy, also rising.

“Yes; very, very good,” replied Tilly. And then, taking one another’s hands, they ran home to their cottage through the dark forest.

Dame Alice, who thought they had lost themselves in the wood, was very glad to see them, and, after she had kissed them, gave them a good supper of bread and milk, which they enjoyed very much, for you see they were very hungry with the long journey.

They told Dame Alice all their adventures, and she was very glad they had gone to the Giants’ Country, for she guessed, like the wise mother she was, that this was the lesson the faeries had foretold.

Ever afterwards, Teddy and Tilly were good children; there never were two such good children, because they thought, if they were not good, they would be taken back to the Giants’ Country and boiled for an ogre’s supper. But after a time they liked to do good actions because they found it pleasant, and Dame Alice was so pleased with their behaviour that she made a rhyme about them, which soon passed into a proverb:

“The magic power of a faery

Cures a child when quite contrary.”

III.
HOW THE RED ELF RETURNED TO FAERYLAND.

When Gillydrop saw the magic boat disappear into the darkness of the sea, he thought that, now he had done one kindly deed, his clothes would change from red to green, and he would be able to return to his dear Faeryland. But nothing of the sort occurred, and the poor elf began to cry again, thinking he was lost for ever, but this time his tears were not red, which was a good sign, although he did not know it.

Very soon he heard Dunderhead roaring for the loss of his supper, so, drying his eyes, he flew back again to the hall of the castle, to see what the giant was doing. He found a great fire was lighted, over which was suspended a great kettle filled with water, which was now boiling hot. Dunderhead was searching everywhere for the children, and when he saw Gillydrop he shook his great fist at him.

“Where’s my supper, you red rag?” he roared fiercely.

“Your supper has gone back to earth,” replied Gillydrop angrily, for no one likes to be called a red rag. “You told me a story, so I thought I’d punish you.”

“Oh, did you?” bellowed Dunderhead, in a rage. “Then I’ll punish you also for spoiling my supper.” And before Gillydrop could fly away, he caught him in his great hand and popped him into the boiling water.

Oh, it was terribly hot, and Gillydrop thought it was all over with him; but, being a Faery, he could not be killed, as the foolish giant might have known. He sank down, down, right to the bottom of the great kettle, and then arose once more to the top. As soon as he found his head above water, he sprang out of the kettle and flew away high above the head of Dunderhead, who could only shake his fist at him.

To his delight and surprise, Gillydrop found his clothes had all changed from red to green, and instead of being dressed in crimson, his suit was now of a beautiful emerald colour. He was so delighted that he flew down on to the floor of the hall, and began to dance and sing, while the giant joined in as he tried to catch him; so that they had quite a duet.

But you see he could not do that, because Gillydrop was too quick for him, and flew round the hall, laughing at Dunderhead, who roared with anger. Then the elf flew out on to the terrace which overlooked the Sea of Darkness, followed by the giant. Gillydrop flew down on to the beach to escape the ogre, and Dunderhead tried to follow; but, as he could not fly, he fell right into the Sea of Darkness. Dear me! what a terrible splash he made! The waves arose as high as the castle walls, but then they settled down again over Dunderhead, who was suffocated in the black billows. He was the very last of the giants, and now his bones lie white and gleaming in the depths of the Sea of Darkness, where nobody will ever find them—nor do I think any one would trouble to look for them.

As for Gillydrop, now that Dunderhead was dead, he flew away across the dreary plain towards Faeryland, and soon arrived at the borders of the sullen grey sea which still rolled under the pale light of the moon. Gillydrop was not a bit afraid now, because his clothes were green once more, and he had performed one kindly deed; so he sat down on the seashore and sang this song:

“When from Faeryland I fled,

All my nice clothes turned to red;

Now in emerald suit I stand—

Take me back to Faeryland.”

And as he sang the grey ocean faded away, and in its place he saw the green trees of the faery forest, waving their branches in the silver moonlight. Only a bright sparkling stream now flowed between Gillydrop and Faeryland; so, spreading his silver and blue wings, he flew across the water, singing gaily:

“Thanks, dear Oberon. At last

All my naughtiness is past;

Home I come without a stain,

And will never roam again.”

So at last Gillydrop got back to Faeryland after all his trials, and ever afterwards was one of the most contented elves ever known. You may be sure he never wanted to see the Country of the Giants again, and whatever King Oberon said he did willingly, because he knew it must be right.

He was quite a hero among the faeries, and had the honour of telling all his adventures to King Oberon himself, which he did so nicely that the King gave him a title, and ever afterwards he was called “Sir Gillydrop the Fearless.”

SHADOWLAND

IT was Christmas Eve, and the snow, falling heavily over a great city, was trying to hide with its beautiful white robe all the black, ugly houses and the narrow, muddy streets. The gas lamps stood up proudly, each on its tall post, and cast their yellow light on the crowds of people hurrying along with their arms filled with many lovely presents for good children.

“They are poor things,” said the gas lamps scornfully. “If we did not shed our light upon them, they would be lost in the streets.”

“Ah, but the people you despise made you,” cried the church bells, which were calling the people to prayer. “They made you—they made you, and gave you your beautiful yellow crowns.”

But the street lamps said nothing, because they could not deny what the church bells said, and instead of acknowledging that they owed all their beauty to the people they despised, remained obstinately silent.

Near one of these lamp-posts, at the end of a street, stood a
ragged boy, who shivered dreadfully in his old clothes, and stamped about to keep himself warm. The boy’s name was Tom, and he was a crossing-sweeper, as could be seen by his well-worn broom. He was very cold and very hungry, for he had not earned a copper all day, and the gaily-dressed army of people swept selfishly past him, thinking only of their Christmas dinners and warm homes.

The snowflakes fell from the leaden-coloured sky like great white angels, to tell the earth that Christ would be born again on that night, but Tom did not have any such ideas, as he was quite ignorant of angels, and even of the birth of the child-Christ. He only looked upon the snow as a cold and cruel thing, which made him shiver with pain, and was a great trouble to brush away from his crossing.

And overhead the mellow bells clashed out their glad tidings in the bitterly chill air, while below, in the warm, well-lighted churches, the organ rolled out its hymns of praise, and the worshippers said to one another, “Christ is born again.”

But poor Tom!

Ah, how cold and hungry he was, standing in the bright glare of the lamp, with his rags drawn closely round him for protection against the falling snow. The throng of people grew thinner and thinner, the gaily-decorated shops put up their shutters, the lights died out in the painted windows of the churches, the bells were silent, and only poor Tom remained in the deserted, lonely streets, with the falling snowflakes changing him to a white statue.

He was thinking about going to his garret, when a gentleman, wrapped in furs, passed along quickly, and just as he came near Tom, dropped his purse, but, not perceiving his loss, walked on rapidly through the driving snow. Tom’s first idea was to pick the purse up and restore it to its owner, whom Tom knew very well by sight, for he was a poet, who daily passed by Tom’s crossing. Then Tom paused for a moment as he thought of all the beautiful things the money in that purse would buy; while he hesitated, the poet disappeared in the darkness of the night, so Tom was left alone with the purse at his feet.

There it lay, a black object on the pure white snow, and as Tom picked it up, he felt that it was filled with money. Oh, how many things of use to him could that money buy—bread and meat and a cup of warm coffee—which would do him good. Tom slipped it into his pocket, and thought he would buy something to eat; but just at that moment he seemed to hear a whisper in the air,—

AS TOM PICKED IT UP HE FELT THAT IT WAS FILLED WITH MONEY

“Thou shalt not steal.”

With a start of terror Tom looked around, thinking a policeman had spoken, and would take him off to prison for stealing the purse, but no policeman was in sight. He saw nothing but the whirling flakes and his ragged shadow cast blackly on the white snow by the light of the lamp. It could not have been the shadow speaking, as Tom thought, for he knew that shadows never speak; but, ah! he did not know the many wonderful things there are in this wonderful world of ours.

Whoever had made the remark touched Tom’s heart, for he remembered how his poor mother had blessed him when she died, and told him to be an honest boy. It certainly would not be honest to steal money out of the purse, but Tom was so cold and hungry that he half thought he would do so. He took out the purse again and looked at its contents—four shining sovereigns and some silver. Then he put it back in his pocket, and trudged home with his broom under his arm.

Home!—ah, what a dreary, cheerless home it was!—nothing but a garret on the top of an old house—a bare garret, with no table or chairs, but only the sacks upon which Tom slept at night.

He closed the door, and then lighted a little bit of candle he had picked up in the streets with one of the matches from a box given him by a ragged match-seller.

Tom placed the candle on the floor, and, kneeling down, opened the purse to look at the money once more. Oh, how tempted he was to take one of those shillings and buy some food and wood—it would be a merry Christmas for him then! Other people were enjoying their Christmas, and why should he not do the same? The great poet who had dropped the purse had plenty of money, and would never miss this small sum; so Tom, desperate with hunger, took a shilling, and, hiding the purse under his bed, was about to blow out the candle before creeping down-stairs to buy some food, when he heard a soft voice whisper,—

“Don’t go, Tom.”

He turned round, and there was the shadow cast by the reflection of the candle-light on the wall. It was a very black shadow, much blacker than Tom had ever seen before, and as he looked it grew blacker and blacker on the wall, then seemed to grow out of it until it left the wall altogether, and stood by itself in the centre of the floor, a waving, black shadow of a ragged boy. Curiously enough, however, Tom could not see its face, but only the outline of its whole figure, yet it stood there shaking with every flicker of the candle, and Tom could feel that its eyes were looking right into him.

“Don’t go, Tom,” said the shadow, in a voice so like his own that he started. “If you go, you will be lost for ever.”

“Lost?” said Tom, with a laugh; “why, I couldn’t lose myself. I know every street in the city.”

“I don’t mean really lost,” replied the shadow; “but it will be your first step on the downward path.”

“Who are you?” asked Tom, rather afraid of the shadow, but keeping a bold front.

“I am your shadow,” it replied, sighing. “I follow you wherever you go, but only appear when there is light about you. If you had not lighted that candle I would not have appeared, nor could I have spoken.”

“Was it you who spoke at the lamp-post?” said Tom doubtfully.

“Yes, it was I,” answered the shadow. “I wanted to save you then, as I do now, from committing a crime. Sit down, Tom, and let us talk.”

Tom sat down, and the shadow sat down also. Then for the first time he caught a passing glimpse of its face, just like his own, only the eyes were sad—oh, so sad and mournful!

“Thou shalt not steal,” said the shadow solemnly.

“I don’t want to steal,” replied Tom sulkily; “but I’m cold and hungry. This shilling would buy me fire and food. I don’t call that stealing.”

“Yes, but it is stealing,” answered the shadow, wringing its hands; “and you know it is. If you steal you will be put in prison, and then I shall have to go also. Think of that, Tom, think of that.”

Tom did not say a word, but sat on the floor looking at the bright shilling in his hand which could procure him so many comforts. The shadow saw how eager he was to take the shilling, and, with a sigh, began to talk again.

“Think of your mother, Tom,” it said softly. “She was the wife of a gentleman—your father; but he lost all his money, and when he died she could get no one to help her. Do you remember how she died herself in this very place, and how she implored you with her last breath to be an honest boy?”

“Yes, I remember,” said Tom huskily; “but she did not know how cold and hungry I would be.”

“Yes she did—she did,” urged the shadow. “She also had felt cold and hunger, but she never complained. She never stole, and now she has her reward, because she is a bright angel.”

“I don’t know what an angel is,” said Tom crossly; “but if she’s all right, why doesn’t she help me?”

“She does help you, Tom,” said the shadow; “and it was because she saw you were tempted to steal to-night that she asked me to help you. She cannot speak as I do, because she is not a shadow.”

“Well, help me if you’re able,” said Tom defiantly; “but I don’t believe you can.”

The candle on the floor had burnt very low, and as Tom said the last words his shadow bent nearer and nearer, until he again saw those mournful eyes, which sent a shiver through his whole body. It stretched out its arms, and Tom felt them close round him like soft, clinging mist; the candle flared up for a moment, and then went out, leaving Tom in darkness altogether. But he did not feel a bit afraid, for the soft arms of the shadow were round him, and he felt that it was carrying him through the air.

They journeyed for miles and miles, but Tom knew not which direction they were taking until a soft light seemed to spread all around, and Tom felt that he was in the midst of a large crowd, although he saw no one near him. Then he felt his bare feet touch some soft, cloudy ground, that felt like a sponge; the shadowy arms unclasped themselves, and he heard a voice, soft as the whispering of winds in summer, sigh,—

“This is the Kingdom of Shadows.”

Then Tom’s eyes became accustomed to the subdued twilight, and he saw on every side a number of shadows hurrying hither and thither. He seemed to be in the centre of a wide plain, over which hung a pale white mist, through which glimmered the soft light. The shadows were all gliding about this plain; some thin, some fat, some tall, others short; they all appeared to have business to do, and each appeared to be intent only on his own concerns. Tom’s own shadow kept close to him, and whispered constantly in his ear of strange doings.

“These are the shadows of the past and of the future,” it sighed; “all the shadows of human beings and their doings are here; see, there is a funeral.”

And a funeral it was which came gliding over the smooth, white plain; the great black hearse, the dark horses with nodding plumes, and then a long train of mourners; all this came out of the mist at one end, glided slowly over the plain, and vanished in the veil of mist at the other. Then a bridal procession appeared; afterwards a great army, clashing cymbals and blowing trumpets from whence no sound of music proceeded; then the coronation triumph of a king, and later on a confused multitude of men, women, and children, all hurrying onward with eager rapidity. But they all came out of the mist and went into the mist, only appearing on the white plain for a few minutes, like the shadows of a magic lantern.

“The stage of the world,” whispered Tom’s shadow. “Birth, death, and marriage, triumphs and festivities, joys and sorrows, all pass from mist to mist, and none know whence they come or whither they go.”

“But what has this got to do with me?” asked Tom, who was feeling rather bewildered.

“You are a man,” said his shadow reproachfully, “and must take an interest in all that men do; but come, and I will show you what will happen if you steal the purse.”

They glided over the plain towards the distant curtain of mist, but how they travelled over the immense distance so rapidly Tom did not know, for in a moment it seemed to him that he had come many miles, and found himself suddenly before a grey, misty veil, with his own shadow beside him, and many other shadows around.

As he stood there, a whisper like the murmur of the sea on a pebbly beach sounded in his ears, and he seemed to guess, rather than hear, what the shadows said.

“Now he will see—now he will see—he must choose the good or the bad. Which will he choose?—which will he choose?”

Then the grey veil stirred, as if shaken by a gentle wind, and, blowing aside, disclosed what seemed to Tom to be a great sheet of ice of dazzling whiteness set up on end. As he looked, however, shadows began to appear on the milky surface which acted a kind of play and then vanished, and in the play he was always the central figure.

First he saw himself pick up the purse in the snowy street; then hide it in his bed. He saw his ragged shadow glide down-stairs from the garret to buy food; the shopman looking at him, then at the shilling; then a policeman arresting him and finding the purse hidden in the bed. Afterwards he saw himself in prison; then released, and prowling about the streets. Years seemed to pass as he looked, and his shadow became taller and stouter, but always wearing a ragged dress. After many years he seemed to see his shadow breaking into a house—meet the owner of the house, and kill him. Afterwards the shadow of himself stood in the dock; then crouched in prison; and, last of all, he appeared standing under a black gallows with a rope round his neck. At length all the shadows vanished, and the surface of the ice mirror again became stainless, whilst a voice whispered in his ear, “All this will happen if you steal the purse.”

Then the shadows again came on to the mirror and acted another play; but this time it was much more pleasant.

Tom saw his shadow representative take the purse back to the poet who had lost it. Then he saw himself in a school, learning all kinds of wonderful things; and the years rolled by, as they had done in the other play, unfolding the shadows of a beautiful life. He saw himself become a great and famous poet, who wrote beautiful books to make people wise and good. Then he saw himself in church, with a woman’s shadow by his

side, and he knew, in some mysterious way, that it was the daughter of the poet who had lost the purse. And as the happy years rolled on he saw himself rich and honourable, and the end of all was a magnificent funeral, taking his body to be buried in the great church wherein many famous men were laid. Then the shadows vanished, and the mirror became pure again, while over it the grey mists fell like a soft veil, and once more the voice of his shadow said,—

“All this will happen if you remain honest.”

Then the crowd of shadows around Tom looked at him with their mournful eyes, and a whispering question ran through the fantastic throng,—

“Which will he choose?—which will he choose?”

“I will choose the honest life,” cried Tom loudly. “Yes, I will give back the purse to the poet.”

At this the shadows around seemed to rejoice, and he could see beautiful faces smiling at him from amid the crowd. The shadow multitude broke in a wild dance of joy, keeping time to some aerial music which Tom could not hear; and his own shadow, with happiness shining out of its mournful eyes, threw its arms round him once more. A dark veil seemed to fall over him, and the great white plain, the glimmering mists, and the restless shadows, vanished together.

When Tom opened his eyes again, he found himself lying on the floor of his garret, cold and hungry still, but with his heart filled with a great joy, for the shilling was still clutched in his hand, and he knew he had not stolen the money. He took the purse from under the sacks, replaced the shilling, and then went out, in the bright sunshine of the Christmas morning, to give back the lost purse to its owner.

Overhead the bells rang out merrily, as if they were rejoicing at Tom’s victory over himself, and a beautiful lady, who was on her way to church, gave Tom some money to get food. He went and bought a loaf and a cup of coffee, then, thankful for his good fortune, he trudged off to the poet’s house.

The great poet received him very kindly, and, after thanking Tom for returning his purse, asked him why he had done so instead of keeping it? Whereupon Tom told the poet all about the shadow, which interested the poet very much. He also had been to Shadowland and seen strange things, which he told to the world in wonderful verse.

“This boy is a genius,” he said to his wife, “and I must help him.”

Then it all happened as the magic mirror had foretold, for Tom was put to school by the kind poet, and became a very clever man. He also wrote poems, which the world received with joy; and when he became a famous man, the kind poet gave him his own daughter in marriage, and the bells which had rang the birth of the child-Christ when Tom was a poor ragged boy, now rang out joyously in honour of his marriage.

“He has conquered,” they clashed out in the warm, balmy air; “he is the victor, and now he will be happy.”

And he was happy, very very happy, and felt deeply thankful to the shadow who had shown him the way to be happy. His own shadow never left him, but it never spoke to him again, though when Tom felt tempted to do wrong, he heard a whisper advising him to do right. Some people said that this was the voice of conscience, but Tom knew it was the voice of his dear shadow, who still watched over him.

And one day he took his wife to the garret where he had lived when a poor boy, and told her how he had been to Shadowland, and learned that to be honest and noble was the only true way to happiness. His wife laughed, and said Tom had been dreaming; but Tom shook his head, and said that it was no dream, but a great truth.

Now, who do you think was right—Tom or his wife?

THE WATER-WITCH

I.
FIRE AND WATER.

ONCE upon a time, long long years ago, there was a shepherd called Duldy, who dwelt in the forests which clothed the base of the great mountain of Kel. This mountain was in the centre of an immense plain, watered by many rivers, and dotted over with many cities, for the kingdom of Metella was a very rich place indeed, so rich that the inhabitants looked upon gold in the same way as we look upon tin or iron, as quite a common thing. The plain was very fertile by reason of the great rivers which flowed through it like silver threads, and all these rivers took their rise in the mountain of Kel, a mighty snow-clad peak which shot up, white and shining, to the blue sky from amidst the bright green of its encircling forests.

There were old stories handed down from father to son, which said that the mountain was once a volcano, which, breathing nothing but fire, sent great streams of red-hot lava down to the fertile plain, to wither and blight all the beautiful gardens and rich corn-fields. But the fires in the breast of the mountain had long since died out, and for many centuries the black, rugged summit had been covered with snow, while countless streams, caused by the melting of the glaciers, fell down its rocky sides, and, flowing through the cool, green pine forests, spread themselves over the thirsty plain, so that it bloomed like a beautiful garden.

Duldy lived in these scented pine forests, and was supposed to be the son of an old couple called Dull and Day, from whence by joining both names he got his own Duldy; but he was really a lost child whom old Father Dull had found, seventeen years before, on the banks of the Foam, one of the bright sparkling streams which flowed from the snowy heights above. Dull took the child home to his wife Day, who was overcome with joy, for she ardently desired to have a little boy of her own, but never had the happiness to become a mother. This good couple took great care of Duldy, and he grew up to be a handsome youth, with golden hair, like the tint of ripe corn, and blue eyes, the colour of the sky. Any one who saw Duldy would have said he was a prince, so noble and handsome did he look, but, alas! he was only a poor shepherd lad, for, in spite of all inquiries, Dull and Day never found out who were his parents.

Now, at eighteen years of age, Duldy was the bravest youth in the forest, for, while protecting his flock of sheep, as they browsed on the thin grass of the high lands, he had killed many wolves who would have carried off the lambs. All the forest maidens were in love with Duldy, for he looked noble and grand in his simple suit of green cloth; and, moreover, it was well known that Dull and Day would certainly leave their flock of sheep to their adopted son, so Duldy would one day be a rich man—that is, rich in the eyes of the simple country people around. But the handsome shepherd never troubled his head about the maidens who sighed so ardently at his feet, for the fact is, he had one day seen the beautiful Princess Elsa when she was hunting in the forest, and had fallen deeply in love with her.

She was really charming, the Princess Elsa, tall and stately, with dark hair and dark eyes; it was no wonder that Duldy loved her, but how hopeless was that love! She was the daughter of King Arago, who ruled over the kingdom of Metella, and he was a poor unknown shepherd lad. Still all these things happened in the days of the fairies, and when fairies take a fancy to any mortal, that mortal can gain anything, however lowly he may be, from the hand of a princess to the throne of a kingdom.

But did a fairy love Duldy? Ah, that is a difficult question to answer! He was not quite sure, and yet he was almost certain that he was loved by the Water-witch Foamina.

She was the fairy of the stream called Foam, whose sparkling waters fell from a great height in a white veil down to a deep pool surrounded by delicate green ferns. From this pool the stream gushed out between two great stones, and babbled down the side of the mountain, glided round great moss-covered rocks rippled under the gnarled roots of ancient trees, and swirled into sombre pools beneath the cool shadow of its grass-fringed banks. After leaving the forest, it flowed broad and placid between rich fields of yellow corn, through old-fashioned villages, under the slender bridges which leaped from bank to bank, and at last mingled with the mighty river encircling the island upon which stood the city of Aurea, the capital of King Arago, wherein dwelt the beautiful Princess Elsa.

Dull and Day had both told Duldy how he had been found on the banks of the stream lying on a white bed of soft foam, and he was very fond of sitting by the brook, listening to its babbling talk, and thinking that it might tell him something about his unknown parents. One day, while he was thus sitting dreaming about the lovely princess, and wondering if he would ever see her again, he heard a light laugh, and thought he saw an arch face peering out at him from behind the falling foam of the waterfall. As he looked steadily, the face vanished, but he caught a glimpse of two white arms playing with the sparkling water, and again saw the smiling face. Then the stream seemed to stop babbling and fretting among its stones, and form itself into words, which grew louder and clearer as he listened. It was not the murmur of the waterfall, nor the sighing of the wind, nor the babbling of the stream, but a voice, much more beautiful than all three, which sounded from behind the veil of foam, and sang this song:

“I am the daughter

Of earth and water,

Born of the sun and the snow so white.

I fall in foam

From my mountain home,

Downward flash in a torrent bright.

My streamlet rushes

And sparkling gushes,

Cold as ice from the virgin snow;

And see these swirls,

My foamy curls

Ringlets white in the pool below.

Now see me dancing,

Chattering, glancing;

Over and under the grey stones grim

I slide, I creep,

I bound, I leap,

On and on thro’ the forest dim;

Then, broadly flowing,

Where corn is growing,

Yellow fields ’neath the azure sky,

Thro’ cities old

My waters cold

By turret and tower go gliding by.

I hear the laughing

Of revellers quaffing

Wine, red wine, in the splendid night;

At morning grey

I pass away,

Golden now in the gold dawn’s light.

With ceaseless motion

I flow to ocean,

Encircle first the King’s chief town.

From dark to light,

From dawn till night,

Ocean calls, and I hurry down.”

A burst of gay laughter ended the song, a great veil of white spray was flung over Duldy as he sat on the bank, and the stream resumed its inarticulate babbling. Duldy went home dreaming of the lovely face he had seen, but, feeling something cold clasping his wrist, he looked down and saw for a moment that it was encircled by a wreath of foam. The white bubbles vanished, but he still felt the cold clasp, and knew, though he could not see it, that the water bracelet was still on his wrist. As he stood perplexed at this wonder, the murmur of the waterfall sounding like soft thunder through the green woods shaped itself once more into words:

“’Tis I whom thou hearest.

I stole thee, my dearest.

I loved thee and kissed when thou wast a child.

I love thee for ever,

No Fate can us sever:

The foam-ring will bind thee to me undefiled.”

And that is how Duldy knew he was loved by the Water-witch.

He came again to the side of the stream and heard Foamina sing the same song, and when he was going home, he once more heard her voice murmuring through the woods. This time he felt rather angry, because he did not want to be bound to the water-faery, as he was in love with the Princess Elsa. However, being a very polite youth, he said nothing, but went home laughing.

Next time he heard her singing, he could not help telling her the truth, and cried out,—

“I do not love you, but the Princess Elsa.”

Instantly the still waters of the pool foamed furiously and arose up like a great fountain, in the centre of which he saw the water-faery looking angrily at him. Terrified at the sight, he hastened away, and did not go to the stream again, but on his wrist he still felt the clasp of the foam-ring, which nothing, not even hot water, could wash away.

Shortly afterwards, a rumour crept through the kingdom that the Princess Elsa had fallen into a deep sleep, out of which no one could rouse her, and the King made a proclamation that whosoever should succeed in waking her would receive her hand in marriage, and be king after him.

When Duldy heard this, he was anxious to go to the city and try to wake the beautiful Princess, but Dull and Day tried to make him give up the idea.

“You don’t know how to wake her,” said Dull; “it must be a magic sleep into which the Princess has fallen.”

“And no one can wake a princess out of a magic sleep except a faery,” observed Day sagaciously.

“At any rate I’ll try,” replied Duldy resolutely, “I have heard that a princess who slept for a hundred years was awakened by a kiss—perhaps if I kiss the Princess Elsa, she also will awake.”

“I don’t think so,” said Dull, shaking his head.

“And the King would never let a poor shepherd kiss the Princess, I’m certain,” said Day wisely.

“Perhaps I’m not a poor shepherd,” cried Duldy cheerfully. “I may be the son of a king for all you know; but I’ll go to the city and try to waken the Princess with a kiss: the King would not mind a kiss if I wakened her.”

Dull and Day shook their heads, for they were simple people, who did not know anything about courts, and were afraid Duldy, whom they loved fondly, would get into trouble.

However, Duldy was determined to try, for one does not get a chance of becoming a king every day, so, packing up a few things in a bundle, and, taking his trusty oaken staff, he set out in the cool of the evening to walk through the forest on his way to the city of Aurea.

It was a beautiful summer’s night, with a gentle wind blowing, and the silver moon shining down on the snowy peak of the mountain, cast strange shadows in the old forest. Duldy did not mind the dark,—for it was rather dark,—but marched bravely on, singing aloud to keep up his spirits. Very soon he found himself walking beside a brawling stream that sometimes ran directly across his path, and as it was deep and turbulent, he was unable to cross it, but had to walk along the bank to see if he could find a shallow place. He never came to any, however, for the stream still appeared deep and dangerous, and wound in and out and round about in the most serpent-like manner, babbling all the time to itself in a laughing way, as if it was delighted at keeping Duldy from pursuing his journey.

Duldy grew very angry, and tried to leap across, but when he was preparing for a spring, the stream broadened out into a wide river, and seeing that, however far he jumped, he would never land on the opposite bank, he wisely abandoned the attempt.

Then it suddenly struck him that the stream must be Foamina, who did not want him to leave the forest, so he determined to find out if it was really her, for he could not believe that it was only a common stream. In order to invoke her to appear, he stood still, and, lifting up his voice, sang these words:

“’Tis I whom thou hearest;

If thou art my dearest,

And loved me and kissed me when I was a child,

I’ll leave thee for ever,

Return to thee never,

If thou wilt appear not, in woman shape mild.”

HE SAW THE FORM OF THE WATER-FAERY GLIMMERING GHOSTLY UNDER THE THIN WHITE VEIL

No sooner had he sung these words than a great jet of foam spouted up from the stream, scattering him all over with cool spray, and in the centre he saw the form of the water-faery glimmering ghostly under the thin white veil. She tossed her arms aloft, sending a shower of water-drops to sparkle in the moon, shining like jewels, and sang in answer:

“River king’s daughter,

Here thou hast brought her,

From the cool water;

She smiles on thee, dear.

Throw but a kiss to me,

It will be bliss to me,

If you do this to me,

A maid I’ll appear.”

On hearing this, Duldy kissed his hand towards the tall white column of foam, whereupon it vanished, and in its place stood a slender, beautiful woman in an azure robe girdled with white water-lilies, the same flowers also being entwined in her golden hair, which fell in great waves down to the ground.

On seeing this beautiful faery with the profusion of golden tresses, Duldy could only stare, whereupon she came forward with a smile and took his hand. Her touch was bitterly cold, and he shivered in the chilly atmosphere which she seemed to spread around her.

“Are you Foamina?” asked Duldy cautiously.

“Yes, I am the Spirit of the River,” she replied, nodding her golden head. “Why do you wish to see me?”

“Because I want to leave the forest,” said Duldy quickly.

“I know you do,” cried Foamina, with a laugh which sounded like the ripple of water; “but you’ll never do so; I’ll foam round you like a brook, and you’ll never be able to jump across.”

“But why will you do so?” asked the shepherd.

“Because I love you—I love you!” she murmured, bending towards him; “and I won’t let you go to the Princess.”

“But I want to waken the Princess with a kiss.”

“I know you do,” said Foamina again; “but you’ll never kiss her—even if you did it would be no good. I plunged her into that magic sleep by my enchantments, and she’ll never awaken until you promise to marry me.”

“Oh, I’ll never do that!” exclaimed Duldy.

“Very well; then she’ll sleep on for ever,” said the Water-witch, laughing cruelly, while the air round her grew bitterly cold, and the yellow locks of her hair and the blue folds of her robe seemed to undulate over her lovely form like waves of water.

“Then, as you won’t let me leave the forest, I suppose I must stay here,” said Duldy in despair.

“Yes, unless you promise to marry me,” replied Foamina tenderly.

“In that case I’ll remain here for ever,” cried Duldy angrily; “and as it’s so cold, I’ll light a fire.”

“No, don’t do that,” said the Water-witch, shivering; “I don’t like fire,—a cruel, hot thing which burns me up.”

“I don’t care,” retorted Duldy, beginning to collect sticks for his fire; “I’m not going to perish with cold for your sake, especially when I don’t love you.”

“I’ll put your fire out,” cried Foamina in a rage.

“Oh no, you won’t,” replied Duldy coolly; “I won’t let you. Besides, I can talk to you much more comfortably when I’m warm.”

Foamina stood sulkily on one side as Duldy lighted his fire; for, in spite of her threat, she was so afraid of the flames that she dared not approach them. Very soon the shepherd had a large fire blazing away merrily, and the red glare lighted up the sombre branches of the trees and the beautiful face of Foamina, who retired to some little distance when the fire began to burn, singing a strange, sweet song:—

“Fire red,

Thee I dread;

Water blue,

I love you;

Fire—water

Maketh hotter;

Water—fire

Makes expire.”

Now, while she was singing, and Duldy was warming himself at the bright flames, a small brown lizard came creeping out of a bunch of ferns and ran across the open space between Foamina and the shepherd.

As soon as the witch saw it, she flung herself on to it with a wild cry, and dissolved into a wide pool of seething foam, apparently trying to drown the lizard. But Duldy, who was kind to all animals, put his hand into the foam and picked up the lizard, which was nearly dead amid the angry water. He put it on the ground near the fire, but the white foam rolled forward right to the edge of the flames, so the poor lizard had no choice but to be drowned or burned, and Duldy put out his hand once more to save it from the cruel witch. To his dismay, however, the lizard, finding itself hard pressed by the foaming waves of the pool, ran into the fire and hid itself among the burning embers; upon which the water retreated with an angry cry, and spouted up into a snow-white column, out of which stepped Foamina in a fearful rage.

“Why did you not let me kill him?” she cried, throwing some cold spray over Duldy. “I wanted to drown him.”

“The poor lizard was not hurting you,” replied Duldy, laughing.

“It was not a lizard!” shrieked Foamina, stamping her foot. “It was my great enemy Salamander, and you saved him, stupid.”

“I don’t think so,” said Duldy, pointing to the fire. “Salamander ran in there, so he must be burned to a cinder by this time.”

“No, he isn’t!” cried the Water-witch, coming nearer; “that is where he lives! but I’ll put the fire out—I’ll put the fire out and drown him!”

She dissolved once more into a wave of foam, and, rolling forward, flung a great sheet of water over the fire. Duldy expected to see the fire go black out, but instead of that it shot up into a tall column of red flame, and he hastily arose, afraid of being burned by the fierce heat. The wave of foam recoiled with an angry hiss, and, changing into a turbulent brook, flowed away through the forest with fretful murmurings, leaving not a trace behind on the smooth green lawn.

“I’m glad she’s gone,” said Duldy, with a sigh of relief. “Now, perhaps, I’ll be able to go on to the Princess.”

“You shall,” said a clear voice behind him; “and I shall help you.”

Duldy turned, and saw the tall column of flame still glowing fiercely red. Afterwards it changed to a beautiful rose colour, and out of it there stepped a handsome youth of his own height and age, dressed in a short red tunic, with golden sandals, and a flashing band of jewels bound round his head. His face was as bright as the sun, and under his skin Duldy could see a rosy flushing, as though fire was burning inside him, while under his feet were the dull red embers and flickering flames.

“I am Salamander,” said the youth, with a smile. “You saved me as a lizard from my greatest enemy, the Fairy of Water, and now I am going to reward you.”

“By waking the Princess?” asked Duldy eagerly.

“No; you must do that,” said Salamander, laughing, “but it will take something more than a kiss to wake her. Listen. Foamina is in love with you, and when you said you loved the Princess Elsa, she revenged herself by plunging her into a magic sleep. She did this by sending to King Arago a golden fountain, and when it was set up in the palace, the water which spouted out of it sent the Princess Elsa to sleep by spreading the odour of poppies through the rooms. This odour affects no one but the Princess, so, in order to release her from the spell, you must make a fire of pine cones and sprinkle on the flames some of this powder, then you will see what happens.”

“Oh, thank you!” cried Duldy, taking a small gold box from Salamander. “And will I be King?”

“If you wake the Princess, you certainly will be King after Arago dies,” said Salamander; “but you have a stronger claim to the throne than by marrying the Princess. Do what I tell you, and you’ll find out the secret of your birth.”

“I’ll go at once,” said Duly joyfully, picking up his bundle and stick.

“One word,” observed Salamander, as Duldy turned to go. “On your way to Aurea, do not let any water of stream, river, pool, or brook touch you, or Foamina will get you into her power again.”

“I’m afraid I am in her power now,” said Duldy mournfully. “I’ve got the foam-ring on my wrist; cannot you take it off?”

“I cannot,” said Salamander, shaking his head; “but the Princess will be able to do that. Foamina will be very angry when you marry the King’s daughter, and will try to do you mischief. If she does, call on me, and I’ll help you.”

He stepped into the rosy-coloured column again, which immediately changed to a fiery red, and sank lower and lower until it vanished in the ground, when Duldy saw to his surprise that his fire had also vanished, the grass being as smooth and green as if no fire had been lighted at all.

Delighted at having things made so smooth for him, Duldy went on through the forest on his way to Aurea, but, remembering Salamander’s command, he was careful to let no water touch him. Many streams lay across his path, but he either jumped over them or clambered over by the trunks of trees, and when he got down to the plain he crossed all the rivers by the bridges. Looking back, he saw the great white peak of the mountain flashing like a jewel in the blue sky, and the green forests encircling its base like emerald waves, but he espied nothing of Foamina, so trudged merrily along on his way to release the Princess Elsa from her enchantment.

II.
THE FOUNTAIN OF JEWELS.

After travelling for some days, Duldy at last arrived, footsore and weary, at the gate of Aurea. It was the entrance to a long stone bridge which crossed the river, encircling the city, and at the farther end was another gate which opened into the principal street. Duldy entered under the wonderfully carved archway, and looked open-mouthed at the smart soldiers on guard, whose red uniforms were all bedizened with gold lace, and who wore helmets of the same metal. To be sure, the good people of Aurea did not think much of gold, as they had such quantities of it, but Duldy, having been brought up very simply in his forest home, was quite amazed at the glare and glitter around him.

All the houses were built of white marble, with latticed windows of yellow gold, and in the centre of the principal square, which was at the end of the great street, a tall slender column of marble wreathed round with bands of gold soared aloft in the clear air. The floor of the square was also of white marble, with four fountains, one at each corner, which threw up jets of sparkling water in shining profusion. Indeed, there seemed to be a great deal of water about this marvellous city; it ran down the sides of every street, it rushed out of the mouths of lions heads of white marble fastened to the walls, and in the centre of some of the squares were great still pools, encircled by marble
rims, flashing like mirrors in the sunlight. Flowers! flowers everywhere!—wreathed round the houses, growing by the fountains, and all the people who passed by Duldy wore chaplets on their heads. White pigeons were flashing through the still air, and the whole city was perfumed with the scent of myriad blossoms. Oh, really it was a wonderful city, and Duldy, looking shabby and dusty in his simple dress, seemed rather out of place among all this magnificence. His face and form, however, were so noble that an old white-haired man who was passing turned back to speak to him.

“Fair youth,” he said in a thin, piping voice, “why do you look so tired and dusty? have you not yet tasted of the hospitality of our city?”

“No,” replied Duldy quietly; “I have been too much astonished at the beauties of this place to ask yet for hospitality. I have come to cure the Princess.”

The old man shook his head sadly.

“Ah, many have come to cure the Princess, but none have yet succeeded; for not doing so they lost their heads; so do not try, my son, or maybe you will fail, and your comely golden head will be cut off.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid,” said Duldy, laughing. “I know all about this magic sleep, and will certainly succeed in awakening her, although the others have failed. But tell me, why does the King promise his throne to the person who cures Princess Elsa; has he no son?”

“None,” answered the old man, whose name was Onaro. “The Princess Elsa is his only child. You are a stranger here, I take it, so perhaps do not know how the King Arago came to the throne.”

“No, I do not.”

“Then I will tell you,” said Onaro; “it will show you how merit sometimes succeeds. The last King had the misfortune to be loved by the Water-witch Foamina, who dwells on the summit of the great mountain of Kel. He refused her love, and in revenge she drowned his queen and only son when sailing in a boat. The King was so overcome with grief at the loss of his wife and child that he died, and as there was no one of the blood royal to succeed him, the citizens elected the prime minister, Arago, to be king, and their choice was very wise; but as he is not of royal blood, none of the neighbouring princes will marry his daughter, so King Arago has promised her hand and his throne to the lucky youth who awakens her from this long sleep.”

“But are you sure the young prince was drowned?” asked Duldy, who remembered how he had been found on the banks of the river Foam.

“Some say he was, others that he was not,” said Onaro, shaking his head. “I do not know; but it is fabled that the enchantress Foamina carried him off with her to her mountain home, but I know not if this be true.”

“How long ago was the Prince lost?” asked the shepherd breathlessly.

“Just seventeen years ago,” replied Onaro; “and he was a year old then, so if he had lived he would now be eighteen years of age.”

“My age,” thought Duldy, with great exultation. “Perhaps, after all, I am the Prince stolen by Foamina;” but he was too wise to say this aloud, lest the King should hear of it, and hang him for high treason.

“As you look tired, you had better come to my house,” said Onaro in a kind voice.

“No, thank you,” replied Duldy, “I’m in too great a hurry; but please tell me how to reach the palace of the King.”

“Go straight on, and you will find it at the end of the street,” said Onaro; “but if you are wise you will not go.”

He spoke these last words to the empty air, for Duldy, as soon as he heard where the palace was to be found, darted up the street like a swallow, so Onaro turned away sighing, thinking that Duldy would soon lose his head, like the rest who had come to cure the Princess.

But Duldy had no idea of losing his head, for it was a very wise head, and useful to him, seeing he could never get another; besides, feeling sure that Salamander would not deceive him, he determined to follow out his instructions about the fire of pine cones and the magic powder.

He soon reached the palace, which was built of dazzling white marble on an elevation at the end of a square, and was approached by a splendid staircase with statues of beautiful women on either side. Duldy looked at the glittering building, with its great towers and pinnacles of gold, its innumerable slender pillars, its golden lattices, and the great dome swelling against the blue sky like an enormous white soap bubble. All this matchless building blazed in the hot sunshine with such splendour that his foot faltered as he placed it on the lowest step, and thought what a poor unknown lad he was to dare such a quest. But the remembrance of the Princess, and the half belief he had in his own royal birth, gave him courage, and he raced lightly up the steps, never halting until he stood at the top, looking down on the wonderful city of white marble and gold spread out before him.

Then he turned and went into a large hall, through the mighty doors, which were of sandalwood, all curiously diapered with gold.

“What do you want?” asked a soldier who was on guard at the door.

“To see the King and cure the Princess,” said Duldy boldly.

The soldier burst out laughing, and, calling to his comrade, whispered in his ear, whereupon they both looked pityingly at Duldy.

“You’ll never succeed,” they said.

“I’ll try, anyhow,” replied Duldy, taking off his cap to a gorgeously-dressed officer who approached. The soldiers told the officer what Duldy wanted, the officer told the groom of the chambers, the groom of the chambers told the prime minister, and the prime minister told the King; whereupon Duldy was ordered before the monarch, who sat upon his throne in the great Hall of Audience.

A splendid hall it was, all of white marble, with a roof of fretted gold, and rich curtains of pale blue velvet hanging between the slender pillars. The throne of solid gold flashed like a jewel, and Duldy’s feet sank in the soft velvet carpets as he stood before the King, a royal-looking man with a crown of silver, for in Aurea silver was thought to be much more precious than gold. But Duldy did not look upon the King, as his attention was fixed upon a great golden fountain in the centre of the hall, out of which spouted the most beautiful coloured water, which first ascended and fell into the topmost basin like liquid silver, then fell from the first to the second basin a sheet of gold, from the second to the third a beautiful crimson tint, from the third to the fourth a bright blue, and from the fourth to the lowest and last a pale green colour. All these different coloured waters glittered like gems in the sunlight which came through the wide windows of the hall, so that the fountain was called the Fountain of Jewels, and Duldy guessed it to be the one which Foamina had sent to the King.

Meanwhile Arago was rather angry at Duldy staring at the fountain instead of himself, for no king likes to be neglected, so he called out to him in a loud voice,—

“Well, my lad, what do you want?”

“To cure the Princess, sire,” said Duldy, quickly turning to the throne.

“You know the penalty if you fail?” said Arago, looking at him steadily.

“Yes, I lose my head.”

“Are you not afraid?”

“No, not a bit; but if I succeed, of course I marry the Princess Elsa, and succeed your Majesty on the throne of Metella,” said Duldy frankly.

“We have passed our royal word that such will be the case,” replied the King, smiling. “Now, begin at once and awaken the Princess.”

“First of all, I must have the Princess brought into this hall,” declared the shepherd.

“Impossible!” said Arago, frowning; “my daughter is asleep on a couch in her bedroom.”

“Then she must be brought here, couch and all,” said Duldy boldly, determined to have his own way; “I can only break the spell here.”

“How so?” asked the King.

“Because the Princess Elsa’s sleep is caused by that fountain,” said Duldy.

“What! the Fountain of Jewels!” cried the King. “That’s nonsense; it was sent to me by the Queen of Faeryland, and she would not send me anything hurtful.”

“I daresay she would not,” said Duldy, with emphasis; “but she did not send that fountain. It came from Foamina.”

“From Foamina!” cried every one, with a start of terror, for the water-faery was much dreaded in Aurea.

“This is very serious,” said the King gravely. “Young man, you must prove the truth of what you say, and if such is the case, I shall have the fountain removed.”

“Then bring in the Princess,” said Duldy, and, kneeling down, he opened his bundle, which was full of pine cones he had picked up in the forest. “I must have your Majesty’s permission to light a fire with these on the marble floor.”

“Very well,” said Arago, nodding his head; “only take care you don’t spoil the pavement.”

Duldy laughed, and while some of the courtiers went out to bring in the Princess, he removed a portion of the carpet, then piling up the pine cones in a little heap, he set them on fire. While he was doing this, the waters of the fountain kept changing to all sorts of colours, and at last every tint faded into a bright yellow, which looked like liquid gold, and breathed a strong perfume, nearly sending Duldy to sleep. However, he pinched himself to keep awake, and attended to his fire, which was now glowing red-hot, while the King and the courtiers all looked on with great curiosity, being much astonished at the change of the Fountain of Jewels.

The Princess was brought in, sleeping on her couch of purple, with a cloth of gold coverlet thrown over her, and she looked truly beautiful, with her black hair falling in disorder over the couch, and her rose-tinted cheek supported by one hand, while the other was pressed on her faintly beating heart. Duldy fell more in love with her than ever, but, suppressing all outward signs of his passion, he ordered her couch to be placed midway between the fire and the throne.

The pine cones were now a small heap of red-hot embers, so Duldy took out the golden box given to him by Salamander, and began to sing, while he sprinkled some of the powder from the box upon the fire,—

“O my lovely Princess sleeping,

By the spells of evil chained,

At thy side I’m vigil keeping,

Longing, hoping, smiling, weeping,

While the day hath slowly waned.

In thy sleep are visions gleaming,

Faery visions from above,

Yet tho’ lovely be thy dreaming,

All these visions are but seeming,

Wake once more to life and love.

Lovely Princess, I have found thee

Sleeping like a night-closed flower,

Of my heart I queen have crowned thee,

So tho’ evil spells have bound thee,

Laugh to scorn all magic power.”

Duldy now emptied all the powder on the fire, and a thick violet mist arose, which, trailing along the floor like a sinuous serpent, writhed across to the fountain and commenced to coil around it. Coil after coil it curled around, till it reached the topmost basin, so that the whole fountain could not be seen, but only the slender jet of water which shot out of the violet mist like the yellow horn of a trumpet lily. Duldy, waving his arms towards the fountain, began to sing again,—

“I have found her—long I’ve sought her,

To my heart this maid I take.

Cease thy spells, O river-daughter,

Vanish, fountain—vanish, water,

Let my Princess fair awake.”

At this the yellow jet shot up as high as the fretted ceiling of the hall, and then sank down till it vanished in the violet mist, which began to whirl round and round, growing smaller and smaller, sinking at every whirl till it vanished altogether, and with it the fountain, leaving nothing but the bare white gleaming marble floor. But the Princess still slept on, although Duldy could see a faint flutter of her eyelids, which showed she was awaking, so, bending forward, he kissed her red lips three times, and sang once more,—

“Now the end of all things this is,

Thou art free from magic snare.

Life for thee hath many blisses,

Words of love and endless kisses.

Ope thine eyes, O maiden fair.”

At this the beautiful Princess opened her eyes, and looked long and steadily at Duldy, then, rising to her feet, she smiled, and flung her white arms round his neck.

“It is the face of my dreams,” she sighed. “Oh, my love, I have waited for thee long years!”

So the spell was broken, for the Princess had awakened, to the delight of King Arago, who descended from his throne and joined her hand to that of Duldy.

“I will keep my word,” he said gaily. “You have released not only the Princess, but all of us, from the power of Foamina, so you will be married at once, and to-night I’ll give a great ball in honour of you both.”

Oh, how everybody cheered, and the courtiers ran hither and thither, telling the good news to one another. The city was in a great state of excitement, and all the poor people were given plenty of food to eat. Duldy led his Princess to her room, and then retired in order to dress himself in his wedding clothes, while the people cheered in the city, the joy bells rang out, and even Foamina in her mountain solitude heard the cry, “Long live Prince Duldy!”

III.
THE SECRET OF DULDY’S BIRTH.

You may be sure Foamina was very angry when she heard the rejoicings in the city of Aurea, for by her magic power she knew that in spite of all her enchantments Duldy was going to marry the Princess. She was sitting on a couch of snow high up on the mountain of Kel, and the moon was shining down on her as she looked far across the plain to the illuminated city, where Duldy was being married to Elsa. As she thought of this, Foamina arose quickly, stamping her foot with rage, so that a great mass of snow came thundering down the side of the mountain and crashed through the green trees.

“I won’t let him be happy!” cried Foamina in a rage, “he still has the foam bracelet on his wrist, so I’ll part him from his Princess yet, in spite of Salamander and his threats.”

So she flung herself off the snow bed and poured down the valley in a torrent of angry foam. First she went to the faery of one stream, and then to the faery of another—making them promise that they would roar like torrents down the mountain, through the plain, and make the great river round the rock upon which Aurea was built rise higher and higher till it flooded the whole city. They all promised gladly, for they were very much afraid of offending Foamina, who was a very malignant faery, and could do them all harm.

Then the Water-witch flowed away through the plain to the great river, and, rising up in the principal fountain of the city, she spoke to all the streams and fountains of the city, in order to make them pour out as much water as they could to drown the city, and this they promised to do, so Foamina was now quite satisfied she would be revenged upon Duldy and Salamander for destroying the Fountain of Jewels and awaking the Princess Elsa.

At the palace all was festivity and rejoicing, and the King was giving a great ball in honour of the marriage; for Duldy and the Princess were now married, and sat on two golden thrones, looking wonderfully handsome and happy. Below them on the marble floor all the lords and ladies were dancing the most graceful dances in the world, and the musicians placed up in a high gallery sang and played the most delightful music, while tables covered with nice tarts and cakes and other beautiful things ran down on each side of the hall.

But notwithstanding that Duldy had married the Princess, and was going to be king when Arago died, he felt quite unhappy, as the foam bracelet still clasped his wrist.

“What is the matter, Prince?” asked Elsa, putting her beautiful white arms round his neck; “you look so sad.”

“I’m afraid of Foamina,” said Duldy, showing Elsa his wrist. “Look at the foam bracelet chaining my wrist; I cannot get it off. Look, you can see it quite plainly.”

And indeed they could, a slender ring of white foam which clasped his wrist so tightly that Duldy felt as though it were the hand of the enchantress grasping him, to drag him away from his lovely bride to the depths of her cold pool.

“Is it cold?” asked Elsa.

“Yes, very cold,” replied Duldy disconsolately. “I wish I could take it off.”

“I think I can do that,” said the Princess, laughing. “If it’s cold, it will soon melt away under my warm kisses;” and so saying, she bent down and kissed his wrist three times with her red lips. Much to Duldy’s surprise, at the first kiss the foam bracelet seemed to grow loose, at the second it fell off his wrist and lay on the floor like a white ring, and at the third it vanished with a loud noise.

Duldy was overjoyed that he was now free from the power of the enchantress, and led the Princess out on to the balcony which overlooked the river. It was a beautiful night, and Duldy saw the great white peak of Kel shining against the dark blue sky, and the heaving waters of the river at his feet. Just as he kissed the lips of his Princess, a confused noise sounded from the city below. The river, lashing itself into angry waves, began to rise, and as Duldy and the Princess, full of dismay, retreated to the hall, a crowd of people rushed in and stopped the dancing.

“Sire! sire!” they called out to the King, “the river is rising round the city, and all the fountains are spouting foam! We are lost! we are lost!”

Everything was in confusion, people rushing here and there shrieking and crying, while the lights of the city died out, and the cruel, dark waters kept on rising, until every one thought the whole city would sink beneath the flood.

Duldy knew it was the work of Foamina, and his mind was quite satisfied on that point when a great white wave of foam rolled into the hall over the balcony. On this the Water-witch was riding, singing loudly,—

“Give me my lover,

King’s daughter, king’s daughter,

Or I will cover

Your city with water.”

The Princess shrieked and hid her face on Duldy’s shoulder, while Arago and all the people around looked at the witch in dismay. Suddenly Duldy recollected how Salamander had promised to help him, so he called out,—

“Salamander,

O, withstand her!

She has brought her

Cruel water.

Drive from land her,

Salamander!”

The witch laughed loudly, and the wave rolled on, amid the lamentations sounding from the city below, when suddenly, in the place where the Fountain of Jewels had been, a tall flame shot up, and out of it flashed Salamander, glowing like a beautiful crimson star.

“Foamina, beware!” he cried, shaking a torch which he held in his hand; “or I will burn up your springs, scorch your forests, and crush you for ever.”

“No, you won’t,” said Foamina, flinging her white arms aloft. “This shepherd is mine—mine! and you can do nothing.”

“Can’t I?” cried Salamander, waving his torch. “Behold!”

There was a great roar, like the report of a thousand cannons, and every one looked through the open window with a cry of alarm.

Far away, from the snowy peak of Kel shot a tall column of red flame, with a black cloud above it spreading over the midnight sky, and vividly bright streams of burning lava began to run down the white snow like veins of fire.

“Oh, my springs, my springs!” shrieked Foamina wildly; “they will all be burned up, and I’ll die—I can’t put that fire out.”

“No, you cannot,” said Salamander sternly; “nor will I till you give up all claim to Duldy.”

“I do! I do!” shrieked the Water-witch, listening with terror to the roar of the fire mountain.

“And tell Duldy who he really is?” said Salamander relentlessly.

“Yes! yes!” cried Foamina, who was now getting thinner and thinner as the hot lava scorched her springs in the distant mountain. “Only stop that cruel, cruel fire!”

“Who am I?” asked Duldy. “Quick! tell me, and Salamander will stop the fire.”

“You are the son of the old King,” cried Foamina wildly. “I drowned your mother and carried you off. I surrender all claim to you now, only stop the fire—stop the fire!”

“You will never do cruel things again?” said Salamander.

“Never!—never!” said the Water-witch, who was now writhing on the floor.

“Then make the waters leave the city,” cried Duldy.

The Water-witch flew to the window and muttered some words, whereupon the river sank down to its usual level, all the fountains stopped pouring out jets of foam, and in a short time the city was as dry and clean as if no waters had been there at all.

“Now go!” cried Salamander, and stretched out his torch towards the mountain. Immediately the column of fire sank back again, the smoke vanished and nothing could be seen but the snow-white peak, the dark blue sky, and the serene moon. As soon as Foamina saw this, she gave a cry of joy, and, flinging herself in a foaming torrent from the window, vanished in the river, and was never seen again.

Then Salamander turned to Duldy and Arago, who stood near, delighted with the defeat of the Water-witch.

“You heard what Foamina said,” he observed to Duldy; “you are the son of the old king, and ought to reign now.”

“And so he shall,” cried Arago, taking off his beautiful silver crown and placing it on Duldy’s head. “I will give up the throne to Duldy and my daughter, and become prime minister once more. Hail, King Duldy!”

“No, he must not be called Duldy,” said Salamander, smiling, “but by his father’s name. So, Hail, King Sama!”

Then all present, including Arago, kneeled down before Duldy, who ascended the throne with his silver crown, and his beautiful Queen Elsa by his side.

“Be happy,” cried Salamander; “you have a kind heart, and that always brings happiness.”

Whereupon he vanished, and was never more seen again, nor did he allow the mountain of Kel to breathe fire any more. So King Sama and Queen Elsa ruled over the land of Metella, and were very, very happy, and were guided by the advice of Arago, who once more became prime minister.

Duldy brought Dull and Day from the forest, and gave them a beautiful palace to live in, but they did not like the city life, and went back again to their cottage, where they died after many years.

So Duldy became king after all, but while his people hailed him as King Sama, his beautiful wife called him nothing but Duldy, the shepherd lad who had released her from the enchantment of the Water-witch.

MOON FANCIES

THERE was once a girl called Lurina, who dwelt with her parents in a cottage on the edge of a great forest, which was said to be enchanted. She was an only child, and her parents, whose names were Panus and Cora, were very fond of her, although she certainly gave them a great deal of trouble. Not that she was naughty in any way, for no one could have been better or more obedient; but she was generally very dull and sleepy all the day, and only woke up at night-time, when she liked to wander outside in the moonlight, instead of going to bed. This habit led her parents to think she had faery blood in her veins, and, although Panus was a dull, stupid man, he nevertheless remembered how very peculiar his old grandmother had been in her actions.

Another curious thing was that Lurina had been born just at full moon, which is the time when all the faeries hold their great monthly festival, and Cora remembered hearing them singing a birth-song about little Lurina, who lay by her side. So there was no doubt but that the faery blood which flowed in the veins of the old grandmother had missed a generation, and once more came out in Lurina. Panus and Cora therefore let her do just as she liked, which was the best thing they could do, as they had been told by a Wise Woman who lived near them.

Lurina was a most beautiful girl, with golden hair, a delicate white skin, and dark, dark eyes, which had a somewhat mournful look in their depths. When she arrived at the age of eighteen, a young woodman called Berl fell in love with her, and, after some hesitation, Lurina promised to become his wife, provided he let her do exactly as she pleased, and did not stop her night wanderings.

“You can go into the forest whenever you like,” said Berl, kissing her; “but why do you not come when the sun is bright, instead of the feeble moonlight?”

“I don’t like the sun,” said Lurina, pouting, “it makes everything so hot and disagreeable; but the moonlight is so soft and beautiful that I love it. Besides, you don’t know what strange fancies come to me when the moon is shining.”

“What kind of fancies?” asked Berl, who was a somewhat dull youth.

“Oh, all sorts of beautiful things,” replied Lurina dreamily; “lovely little men and women dressed in green, who dance lightly on the emerald turf, and strange, sweet songs which sound like rushing water and the whispering of leaves. I dream about them when I’m in the wood, but nowhere else.”

Berl was now convinced that Lurina had faery blood in her veins, and attended the festivals of the faeries, which she called moon fancies; but, being a very cautious man, he said nothing to Lurina; nevertheless, before he got married he consulted the Wise Woman.

She was really a very wonderful old woman, with snow-white hair and a form nearly bent double with age. She listened to Berl’s story about Lurina’s moon fancies, and then spoke in a harsh, determined voice.

“Your future wife has dealings with the faeries,” she said, looking at Berl from under her bushy white eyebrows; “but what she sees at night in the forest are real truths, and not fancies as she thinks. My advice to you is not to marry her, lest evil befall you.”

But Berl was too much in love with the beautiful Lurina to take this advice, so he said nothing, but asked Panus and Cora to let him marry their daughter at once, which they were very pleased to do, for he was quite a rich man among the woodmen and, moreover, very good-natured.

The wedding-day arrived at last, and Lurina was married to Berl by the village pastor. Those who thought she had faery blood in her veins said she would never be able to enter the church; but, much to their surprise, nothing unusual occurred at the ceremony, so they began to think Lurina was only a dull, stupid girl after all. This was a mistake, however, as you will soon hear.

Berl and Lurina took up their abode in a pretty cottage under the shade of a great oak, and lived very happily for a long time. Lurina was still dreamy and quiet all the day, but as Berl was generally at work in the wood, he did not notice it much. At night-time, however, she still wandered into the forest, especially when the moon was very bright, and this habit began to annoy Berl very much, but as he had given his word not to interfere with Lurina, he said nothing.

One night, however, when the moon was full, and the whole of the forest was bathed in the pale, cold light, he woke up, and, missing his wife from his side, knew that she had gone into the forest to indulge in her moon fancies. Berl sprang out of bed, and just caught a glimpse of her shadow disappearing among the trunks of the trees; so he rapidly slipped on his clothes and hurried after her, being determined to find out why she was so fond of these midnight wanderings.

“She’s going to a meeting of the faeries,” thought Berl, as he ran across the lawn. “I hope the little people won’t be angry if they see me; but my wife will protect me.”

For you must know that the faeries never like their revels gazed upon by mortal eye, and if they catch any one looking they pinch him black and blue; so Berl had good reason to be afraid of venturing into the enchanted wood at night.

He followed his wife cautiously, always keeping her in sight, but taking care she should not see him, when suddenly she crossed an open glade and vanished. Berl ran after her, but could find no trace of Lurina at all, and was quite disconsolate, when all at once he espied her sitting at the foot of a great beech tree, leaning against the trunk, with her beautiful face looking pale and white in the moonshine. Having watched her for a long time, he ventured to approach and call her by name, but, to his astonishment, she did not answer nor express surprise at seeing him, but simply stared across the glade with vague, unseeing eyes.

Emboldened by her silence, Berl ran up and fell on his knees with a little laugh, thinking she would scold him for having dared to follow her. He was perplexed, however, to see that she still did not seem to notice him, and when at last he took one of her hands, it was as cold as ice. Starting up in alarm, he looked closely at her, and found that she did not breathe—placed his hand on her heart, and discovered that it did not beat.

“Why, she’s dead!” he cried in alarm. “Lurina, it is I, your husband, Berl.”

Still Lurina did not answer. So, convinced she was dead, Berl threw her body over his shoulder and hurried home. When he got inside, he did everything he could to revive her, but it was no use; the beautiful Lurina was dead, and Berl sat all night beside her body, weeping bitterly.

At the first red flush of dawn, he went from house to house, telling Lurina’s parents and all the neighbours that his wife had died the preceding night in the forest. Every one came to Berl’s house to see if it was true, and offer advice, which one’s neighbours are very fond of doing. Among those who came was the Wise Woman, who surveyed the beautiful Lurina for some time in silence, then laughed loudly.

“Why do you laugh?” asked Berl, angry with her for doing so.

“I laugh at your folly,” said the Wise Woman, looking oddly at him. “Lurina is no more dead than I am.”

“But her heart is not beating, and she does not breathe,” said Panus quickly.

“Nevertheless, she is not dead,” replied the Wise Woman quietly. “Have you ever seen her like this before?” she added, turning to Cora.

“No, never,” answered Cora, who was weeping bitterly.

“Ah! that is because you never followed her to the forest as Berl did,” said the Wise Woman thoughtfully. “I told you, Berl, that your wife had faery blood in her veins, and you should have taken my advice about the marriage.”

“Well, it’s too late now to blame me,” said Berl roughly, for he did not like to be reproached. “What am I to do?”

“I will tell you,” observed the Wise Woman. “Come to my cottage at once.”

So Berl left the body of his beautiful Lurina with her parents, and walked with the Wise Woman to her cottage, which was just on the verge of the wood, but protected from the entry of the faeries by a rusty horse-shoe fastened on the door.

When Berl entered, the Wise Woman drew a circle on the ground with her magic staff, whereupon a ring of pale flickering fire appeared; then she pulled seven hairs out of the tail of her black cat, and threw them into the midst of the circle, where they began to twist about in a most surprising manner. While they were doing this, the Wise Woman waved her staff seven times in the air, muttering strange words, and a white smoke arose from the centre of the fire circle where the hairs were jumping about. This white smoke went up like a white cloud, then suddenly vanished, and Berl saw a little man, all dressed in red, sitting in the centre of the circle.

“Well, what do you want?” he said graciously to the Wise Woman, whose bright eyes sparkled when she saw him.

“Why did Lurina die?” asked the Wise Woman. “Tell me, Pop.”

“She’s not dead at all,” answered Pop quickly; “she is a faery, and went into the woods to attend the festival. As she could not join the revels of Oberon in her human body, which would be too big, she left it behind, leaning against the trunk of a beech tree, and her faery body went to dance with the faeries. Of course, when Berl took her body away, she could not find it again when she returned, and she never will find it till it’s brought back to the same place.”

“What is to be done, then?” asked the Wise Woman.

“Berl must take Lurina’s body back again from where he brought it,” said Pop; “but before Lurina’s faery body can come back to it, Berl will have to get permission for it to do so from Oberon.—Now let me go, I’ve told you all I know.”

The Wise Woman waved her staff again, the white smoke came down on the little red man like an extinguisher, then everything vanished, and Berl found himself standing outside the door of the cottage, with the Wise Woman smiling at him.

“You heard what Pop said,” she observed kindly; “you will have to go to the court of King Oberon, and ask him to let your wife come back.”

“But will he do so?” asked Berl doubtfully.

“Ah, that I do not know,” said the Wise Woman; “but as the faeries may treat you badly for looking at their festival, take this sprig of the rowan tree, and it will protect you. Don’t forget to take Lurina’s body back to the beech tree.”

Berl took the sprig of rowan with its red berries that she handed to him, and walked away to his own cottage. He did not tell any one what the Wise Woman had said, but managed to put off all their questions by pretending to be too grieved to speak. So one after another the neighbours departed, until only Panus and Cora were left, and they, too, after kissing the pale lips of Lurina, went away, leaving Berl alone.

Berl waited impatiently for night to come, and as soon as the moon was glowing like glittering silver in the starry sky, he took Lurina up in his arms, and, carrying her into the forest, placed her in the same position as he had found her, leaning against the trunk of the beech tree.

When he had done this, he looked round perplexed, for he did not know how to find the faery court, but, taking out the rowan twig, he looked at it earnestly, wondering if it would by some magic means show him the way. But the rowan twig made no sign, and Berl put up the hand in which he held it to take off his cap and fasten it in it, when the twig happened to strike his ear, and immediately the silent forest became full of sounds.

He heard the most delightful music, then a burst of gay laughter, and, following the direction from whence they proceeded, he came upon a wide open glade, with a smooth green sward upon which the moon was shining. Still, though he looked very hard, he could not see a faery; then, suddenly remembering how the rowan twig had bewitched his ears, he took it out of his hat, and pressed the red berries against his eyes. To his delight, he now saw that all the sward was covered with thousands of little men and women all dressed in pale green, and at the end was a throne of great white lilies, upon which sat the King and Queen of Faeryland. All round the glade were a circle of glow-worms, whose pale lights illuminated the festival, and the bright moonlight pouring down through the boughs of the trees made everything as bright as day.

As soon as the faeries discovered that Berl could really see them at their revels, they shrieked with rage, and hundreds of the little green creatures swarmed up on his body to pinch him black and blue. Berl was in a great fright at first, till he suddenly remembered what the Wise Woman had said about the rowan sprig, so immediately called out—

“Magic branch of rowan tree,

Work the charm and set me free.”

At once there was a dead silence, and all the faeries fell to the ground like withered leaves in autumn. Some of them ran to the throne of lilies, and spoke to the King, upon which Oberon stepped down, and, followed by a long train, walked up to Berl and commanded him to sit down. Berl did so, and then Oberon struck the ground with his wand, whereupon a great red rose sprang up, in which he took his seat with Queen Titania, while the other faeries gathered round and prepared to listen.

“Now, mortal,” said Oberon in a dignified manner, “how is it that with an earthly eye you have beheld the unseen revels of the faeries?”

“It was by this rowan twig, your Majesty,” said Berl, showing Oberon the sprig; “the Wise Woman gave it to me as a protection, in case the faeries should be angry.”

“We are only angry with evil-disposed people,” said Oberon gently; “and if you come here with a pure heart, no one will harm you. What do you want with us?”

“I want my wife Lurina,” said Berl boldly.

There was a cry of astonishment at this. Suddenly a faery flew forward on emerald wings, and, as she stood before Oberon, Berl saw that it was Lurina.

“Yes, your Majesty,” said the faery Lurina, “I am his wife, but he lost me through his curiosity, as your Majesty knows. I was exiled from Faeryland many years ago, and condemned to dwell in a human body. I lived in Lurina’s body, but was allowed by the Queen to join in the faery revels at night. I told my husband not to follow me, but he did so, and found my human body lying as if dead under the beech tree, because I had left it to attend the festival. When I went back, I could not find it, so had to stay in the forest all day as a faery.”

“Is this true?” asked Oberon, turning to Titania.

“Perfectly true,” answered Titania. “It was I who punished Lurina by exiling her from Faeryland, but now I think she is punished enough, and, as she has lost her human body through no fault of her own, she is pardoned.”

On hearing these words, the faery Lurina dropped on her knees and kissed the Queen’s hand, then flew off to be congratulated on her good luck by her faery friends. But Berl was not at all pleased to think he had lost his wife for ever, and spoke to the King.

“But what am I to do, your Majesty?” he said, with tears in his eyes. “I love Lurina very much, and don’t want to lose her.”

“There is only one thing to be done,” said Oberon. “Have you brought back the human body of Lurina?”

“Yes, your Majesty; it’s under the beech tree,” replied Berl eagerly.

“Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said the King. “As the Queen has pardoned Lurina, of course she can’t go back, as no faery likes to live in your world; but the faery Mala has been very naughty of late, so I will condemn her to inhabit your wife’s body, and stay in exile until she is good enough to come back to court.”

“But that won’t be Lurina,” said Berl.

“She will wear Lurina’s body,” replied Oberon, laughing; “and no one but yourself will be the wiser. Leave the forest at once, and to-morrow morning you will see your wife come to the cottage door. Strike up, music!”

Whereupon the faery music began to play loudly—the blue bells rang merry chimes, the grasshoppers creaked gaily, and the wind commenced to sigh among the forest leaves.

Berl dare not disobey the King’s command, and, after seeing Oberon return to the throne of white lilies, and all the faeries commence their dance again, he arose to his feet. As he did so, he accidentally dropped the rowan twig, which was snatched up by a faery at once, and then the whole of the faery revel vanished. Berl could see nothing of the dancing, nor hear anything of the music, but only beheld the smooth green lawn, the myriad trees around, and the round orb of the moon.

There was nothing left to do but to return home, which he did at once, and you may be sure he got very little sleep that night. At early dawn he was standing at his cottage door, looking towards the wood, when he beheld Lurina tripping gaily towards him, singing merrily. When she saw Berl, she flung herself into his arms.

“Dear Berl, here I am at last!” she cried, kissing him.

“But you are the faery Mala,” said Berl, looking at her in perplexity.

“Who is the faery Mala?” asked Lurina, who had forgotten all about her faery existence now she was in a human body. “I never heard of her. I went into the forest and fell asleep, I suppose. When I awoke I came straight back to you.”

Berl was a wise man, and said no more, but kissed his newly-recovered wife heartily, then called all the neighbours to congratulate him, which they did loudly.

When they told Lurina she had been dead, she declared it was nonsense, as it was only a sleep, and soon every one believed it except Berl and the Wise Woman, to whom Berl told all about his reception by Oberon.

Lurina became bright and gay all day, and never more wandered into the forest to indulge in moon fancies, so Berl thought the faery Mala must have been exiled altogether from Faeryland.

She was very good indeed, so good that Berl was quite afraid lest she should be called back to Faeryland, but as yet that has not happened.

THE ROSE-PRINCESS

I.
THE QUEEN WHO DID NOT BELIEVE IN FAERIES.

ONCE upon a time there was a King and Queen who reigned over a most beautiful country. They were very rich and very happy, and lived in a most gorgeous palace, the grand gardens of which sloped down to the blue sea, on which sailed many richly-laden ships, carrying merchandise to the capital city of the kingdom.

The palace was built of silver and ivory, and adorned with pale blue velvet hangings, upon which were painted the most exquisite pictures in the world. It stood on a high green hill, and far below lay the immense city of Buss, with its wide streets, many towers, and glittering fountains. As the King and Queen looked down from their beautiful castle on to the mighty city and great green plains which surrounded it, they ought to have been happy, but, curious to say, they were not. They had everything in the world to make them happy except one thing, and that one thing they longed for ardently, the more so because they did not see any chance of obtaining it.

“Ah, if I only had a child!” sighed the Queen.

“Yes; a little boy,” said the King.

“Or a little girl,” retorted the Queen. “Don’t you know any faeries, my dear, who would gratify our one desire?”

“No,” replied the King, shaking his head sadly. “My great-grandfather was the last person who ever saw a faery; no one has ever seen one since.”

“I don’t believe they exist,” said the Queen angrily.

“Oh yes, they do,” observed her husband. “This palace is said to have been built by faery hands.”

“I don’t believe they exist,” declared the Queen again. “If they did, they would surely help me by giving me a little girl or boy. What’s the good of faeries if they don’t help you?”

“I wish they would help me,” sighed his Majesty; “all my subjects are getting so unruly that I don’t know but what there will be a revolution, and they’ll put some one else on the throne.”

“Who else could they find?” asked the Queen curiously.

“Oh, I’m not certain of that,” replied the King. “You see, my grandfather, who was the first of our dynasty, ascended the throne by the help of the faeries, and the king who was deposed vanished, but they say some of his descendants live there;” and he pointed downward to the city.

“And there they will stay,” said the Queen angrily. “I don’t believe a word of it. Faeries indeed! they don’t exist.”

“But they do,” persisted the King.

“Pooh!” replied her Majesty. “Pooh!”

Now, when the Queen said “Pooh!” her husband knew it was no use talking any more, so he retired to his cabinet to look over some petitions from starving people, while the Queen went down with the ladies-in-waiting to walk in the garden.

It was really a delightful garden, filled with the most wonderful flowers. There were great beds of scented carnations, glowing with bright colours, red and white foxgloves, in whose deep bells the faeries were said to hide, masses of snowy white lilies, and a great mixture of marigolds, hollyhocks, sweet-williams, daisies, buttercups, and dahlias, which made the whole ground look like a brightly-coloured carpet. And as for the roses—oh, what a quantity of charming roses there were growing there! Red roses, varying in colour from a deep scarlet to a pale pink; white roses looking like snowflakes; yellow roses that glittered like gold, and faintly-tinted tea-roses that perfumed the still air with their sweet odours. Oh, it was really a famous garden, and bloomed all the year round, for the kingdom was situated in the region of perpetual summer, where snow never fell and frost never came.

The Queen, whose name was Flora, wandered disconsolately about the garden, quite discontented with the beautiful flowers, because she could not obtain the wish of her heart. The ladies-in-waiting began to pluck flowers in order to adorn the royal dinner-table, and Queen Flora walked on alone towards a great white rose tree that was covered with blossoms. As she stood looking at it, she suddenly heard a tiny laugh, and a great white rose unfolded its petals, showing a golden heart, and also a dainty little faery dressed in delicate green leaves, with a crown of little white rosebuds, and a wand made of a blade of grass. When the Queen saw her, she was much astonished, because she did not believe in faeries, but, now she really saw one, she had to believe her own eyes.

“I am called Rosina,” said the faery in a sweet, low voice, “and I heard you say you did not believe faeries existed; now you see they do, because I am a faery.”

“Yes, you must be a faery,” replied the Queen, clasping her hands, “because no human being could be so small.”

“Oh, I can be any size I please,” said the Faery Rosina, with a laugh, and, stepping down from the rose, she alighted on the ground, and instantly grew as tall as the Queen herself.

“Oh, you are a real, real faery!” cried Flora in delight. “But why do the faeries not appear now?”

“Because the land is so badly governed,” said Rosina in a severe tone. “Yourself and the King only think of luxury, and never of assisting the poor people; but I am going to cure you both of such neglect.”

“But how?” asked the Queen, trembling.

“By giving you your wish,” said the faery, plucking a white rosebud off the tree. “Lay this bud beside your bed to-night, and at the dawn of day it will change into a beautiful little baby Princess, which is what you want.”

“Oh yes, yes!” cried the Queen; “I do want a Princess.”

“Every night at sundown,” said the faery slowly, “the Princess will once more change into a flower, and become a human being again at sunrise.”

“But will she change like this all her life?” asked the Queen, in great dismay, for she did not like to have such a curious baby.

“She will be a Princess by day and a rosebud by night,” said Rosina, smiling, “until she marries the great-grandson of the King whom your husband’s grandfather deposed from the throne.”

“And where is this Prince to be found?” demanded the Queen breathlessly. “I’ll marry my Princess to him at once.”

“You can’t do that,” said the faery, shaking her head. “The exiled Prince does not know who he is, and the Princess herself will have to tell him he is of the royal blood. When she does that, and you marry them to one another, the spell will be removed, and she will be a Princess both by day and by night.”

“I don’t see how she’s ever going to find this lost Prince!” said the Queen angrily. “I shall certainly not let my child run about the world looking for him.”

“Fate is stronger than you are,” replied the faery, “and you will see what you will see.” So saying, she suddenly disappeared, and, as the white rose slowly curled up its petals, the Queen knew the Faery Rosina was inside.

The ladies-in-waiting, who had seen the Queen talking to a strange lady, dared not approach before, but now they saw their royal mistress was alone, they ventured to come near, and one of them offered to take the white rosebud which the Queen held.

“Oh no!” cried Flora, hastily drawing back her hand; “I am going to keep this rosebud. It is my”—

She was going to say Princess, but, thinking it wiser to keep her own counsel, she held her tongue, and, on returning to the palace, told no one but the King about the faery’s promise. The King laughed at her, and said he did not believe her story—that she must be dreaming; but the Queen persisted in her tale, that the rosebud would become a Princess, and placed it on a velvet cushion by the side of her bed.

Next morning, at the first break of day, she sprang up out of bed and hurried to look at the cushion, but there lay the rosebud a rosebud still, and not a Princess, as she thought it would be.

Queen Flora was very much disappointed, particularly as the King laughed at her folly for believing she had seen a faery, when suddenly a shaft of golden sunlight shone through the window right on to the cushion, and in an instant, instead of the flower there appeared a beautiful naked baby, who laughed and crowed gaily.

The Queen was nearly mad with joy, and took the baby up in her arms to show the King, who was equally delighted.

“You see there are faeries after all,” he said to the Queen.

“I always thought so,” replied the Queen.

“Oh, my dear!” said the King, who was quite shocked at such a story.

“Pooh!” answered Queen Flora, tossing the baby up in her arms, and this ended the conversation.

II.
THE ROSE-PRINCESS IS LOST.

Of course there was great joy when it came to be known that Queen Flora was the mother of a lovely Princess, and all the bells in the city were set ringing, while the poor people, for once, had as much food as they could eat. The ladies of the Queen admired the beautiful baby very much indeed, and there was no doubt the little Princess was really a charming child. By the advice of the King, however, Queen Flora told nobody about the transformation which took place at sundown, and always put the Princess to bed herself every night. Then, as the sunlight died out of the western skies, the pretty baby would change into a delicate white rosebud, and rested on a velvet cushion beside the Queen’s bed every night. At the first golden ray of the sun the bud changed to a beautiful Princess once more, and no one ever knew that she was only a flower transformed for the day into a human being.

As the years rolled on, the Rose-Princess grew into a tall, slender girl, with golden hair, blue eyes, and the most beautiful complexion, white and pink, flushed like a delicate rose. When she walked she swayed like a graceful lily, and always dressed in a green gown with a girdle of white roses, which were her favourite flowers.

She also wore a silver circlet on her golden hair, upon which were fastened diamond roses and leaves made out of bright green emeralds, which made her look so beautiful that all who beheld her fell in love on the spot. Many princes heard of her beauty and wanted to marry her, but she did not care for any of her suitors, which pleased Queen Flora very much, for she was anxious her Princess should marry the great-grandson of the exiled King, and cease to change into a rosebud.

The King made a proclamation that if the descendant of the old dynasty came to the palace, he would marry his daughter and be heir to the throne; but no one ever came forward to claim the hand of the Princess, which showed that the Faery Rosina spoke truly when she said the exiled Prince knew nothing about his royal blood.

The Princess was christened Rose by the Queen, because she really was the offspring of the white rose tree, but her complexion was so delicate, and her love for roses so great, that every one called her the Rose-Princess instead of the Princess Rose.

Now, on the seventeenth birthday of the Rose-Princess, there was a mighty revolution in the city of Buss, and a great multitude of men and women marched to the palace in order to dethrone the King. He was not a bad King as kings go, but, not knowing how to govern, he did nothing but amuse himself with balls and fêtes, letting his courtiers govern as they pleased. As the courtiers were all very greedy, and wanted money, they put such heavy taxes on the people, that at last the King’s subjects could stand it no longer, and while a ball was taking place in the great hall of the palace, in honour of the Rose-Princess’s birthday, the doors were burst open, and the mob rushed in. The ball was being given in the day-time, so that the Rose-Princess could attend, because, of course, she could not dance when changed into a flower. The music was sounding most beautifully, the King and Queen sat on their thrones with golden crowns, and the Rose-Princess was dancing gaily, when the noisy crowd of ragged men and women rushed into the beautiful palace.

Oh, it was really a terrible scene! All the gaily dressed lords and ladies were seized by the dirty hands of the people, and stripped of their beautiful jewels. The great mirrors were all smashed, the lovely blue hangings torn down and trampled on by the mob, the gorgeous gardens were all destroyed, and these rioters, breaking into the King’s wine-cellars, began to drink the fine wine of which he was so proud.

All the women of the city collected a lot of velvet couches, gorgeous dresses, and rich curtains into a heap in the garden, and, setting fire to it, danced about in a ring, singing loudly—

“High to low

Down must go;

Low to high

Now must fly.

All the lords and ladies dead,

Let us eat their costly bread,

While beneath our feet we tread

Every proud and haughty head.”

You may be sure the King and Queen did not wait to face these terrible people, but, disguising themselves in mean garments, fled from the palace, leaving all their beautiful things to be destroyed by the mob, who chose a President, and proclaimed a Republic, then began to kill all the lords and ladies they could find. The whole nation seemed to go mad, and there was no law or order anywhere, but every one did exactly as they pleased, so that the entire kingdom was brought to the verge of ruin.

And the Rose-Princess?—ah, poor lady! she also fled in dismay from the terrible people, and sought refuge in her own room. It was still early in the afternoon, so she could not change into a rose, and thus escape the fury of the mob; and, as her parents had deserted her, she stood trembling in her beautiful chamber, thinking she would be found and torn to pieces. Besides, being ignorant of her nightly transformation, she was afraid to go to bed, lest she should be killed while asleep.

As she stood weeping and wringing her hands in despair, she suddenly saw a tall handsome lady standing before her, looking at her kindly. This was the Faery Rosina, who had come to save the Rose-Princess from the people, as it was not her fault that they had rebelled against the King.

“Do not weep, Rose-Princess,” she said in a kind tone; “though things seem to be going wrong just now, they will all come right.”

“But my dear parents!” cried the Rose-Princess, weeping.

“They have left the palace,” said the faery in a severe tone, “and will now endure hardship, to punish them for the way in which they have neglected their office; but when they have learnt a lesson, they will come back again.”

“But what will become of me?” cried the Rose-Princess, as the noise of the mob came nearer and nearer.

“You will be quite safe,” replied the faery; “and the people who are now crying out to kill you, will soon be cheering you on your wedding-day, when you are married.”

“Married to whom?” asked the trembling Princess.

“Ah, that you must find out!” answered the Faery Rosina, as the crowd commenced to batter at the door of the room. “But now I must save you from the people, or they will certainly kill you.”

As she said this, she touched the Princess, who immediately changed into a white rosebud, and lay on the dark green carpet like a snowflake. Then the Faery Rosina vanished, and the door was burst open, as the mob rushed in.

Of course they now saw nothing, and never for a moment dreamt that the white rose lying on the carpet was their beautiful Princess, so they commenced to pull down all the costly things in the room, and would have trampled the rosebud under their feet, only a young student picked it up.

He was a handsome fellow of twenty, this young student, with a slender figure and a dark, splendid-looking face. His name was Ardram, and he was one of the leaders of the revolt, although he did not wish the people to destroy everything as they were doing. Ardram was a very learned youth, and the son of a poor sick woman, of whom he was very fond. He had seen all the misery of the poor people who were in want of bread, and the sinful luxury of the court, so thought it but right that a change should be made. Therefore he led the people to the palace, to ask justice of the King, but they had become too strong for him, and he was already regretting that he had not let them stay where they were. However, it was too late now for regrets, but he determined not to take any part in the follies of the mob, so walked home to his own little room in the city, with the white rosebud in his button-hole.

All night long he saw the flames rising from burning dwellings, and heard the shrieks of people being killed, so he felt very sad to think that he was the original cause of it all, though he certainly had no intention of letting such things be done. Then he determined on the morrow to talk to the people, and try and persuade them to stop their plundering and cruelty, but, in the meantime, went to bed and slept for an hour in an uneasy manner.

He forgot all about the white rosebud, which had fallen on the floor, as he flung himself, dressed as he was, on his bed, but when he awoke in the morning, he was much surprised to find seated beside him a beautiful woman, who was weeping bitterly.

“Who are you?” asked Ardram, springing to his feet; “and how did you come here?”

“I am the Rose-Princess,” she replied sadly; “but I do not know how I came here. You will let me stay, will you not? I am so afraid of those terrible people who broke into the palace.”

“Oh, I won’t let them harm you, Princess,” said Ardram, who had fallen in love with her beautiful face; “but you must not leave this room, or else I cannot protect you.”

“I’ll stay here,” said the Rose-Princess obediently; “but will you please give me something to eat?—I feel rather hungry.”

So Ardram brought out some bread and wine, off which the Princess made a hearty meal, talking to her host all the time she was eating.

“I saw you in the palace yesterday,” she said, looking straight at Ardram.

“Yes,” replied the student, blushing; “I was with the people. We only wanted justice, and I did not think they would go on like they did. The people were too strong for me, so I left them.”

“And will you put my father on the throne again?” asked the Rose-Princess eagerly.

“I’m afraid that will be impossible, Princess,” said Ardram quietly, “unless he promises to govern better. You see, many years ago, a king was deposed for governing badly, and your grandfather was put on the throne—now they’ll offer the crown to some one else.”

“Perhaps they’ll offer it to you?” suggested the Rose-Princess.

“I don’t think so,” said Ardram, laughing, as he arose to his feet; “but if I did become king, I would take care that all my subjects were well off. Now I’ll go out, Princess, and you stay here.”

“Very well,” answered the Rose-Princess; “and do look for my parents.”

“I will—though I daresay they’ve left the city,” said Ardram, and he went away more in love with the Princess than ever.

Meanwhile the Rose-Princess was left alone, and thought how noble and brave Ardram was.

“If he was only the Prince I was to marry!” she sighed; “but then the faery said everything would come right, so, perhaps, he is to be my husband after all.”

She waited all through the long day for the return of Ardram, but he did not return till sundown, and just as his hand was on the door, the Princess changed into a white rosebud, so, when he entered, he found the room empty.

“Princess, Princess, where are you?” he called out in alarm; but of course no Princess answered him, and Ardram asked every one in the house if they had seen a beautiful lady go out, but no one had done so.

“I’ll go and see my mother,” said Ardram in perplexity, for his mother was a very wise woman, although at present she was lying on a bed of sickness. As soon as Ardram made up his mind to ask his mother’s advice, he put on his cap to go, when he spied the white rosebud on the floor.

“Hullo!” he cried, picking it up; “this is the rose I found in the palace yesterday—my mother is fond of flowers, so I’ll take it to her;” and he went away.

The streets were quite full of people, all in a great state of excitement, for the King, Queen, and Princess had vanished, and, as all the ministers were beheaded, there was no one to rule, so the whole kingdom was in a dreadful state.

Ardram reached his mother’s house, and found her in bed, very ill, but when she saw him she was much delighted.

“How are things going?” she asked, after he had kissed her.

“Very badly,” replied Ardram; “no one is able to rule, and I’m afraid we will have a civil war.”

“Oh no, we won’t,” said his mother quickly. “If the people won’t have their present King, perhaps the exiled Prince of the old royal family will be found.”

“I’m afraid not,” replied her son, smiling; “but if he is, I hope he’ll rule wisely.”

“I hope so too,” said his mother pointedly. “Who gave you that beautiful rose, Ardram?”

“I picked it up in the palace, mother,” he answered, and, taking it out of his button-hole, he gave it to her to smell. Then he told her all about the beautiful Princess, and his mother was very much astonished that the poor lady had left the safe shelter of his room, and perhaps been torn to pieces by the angry people in the street.

At last Ardram went away, leaving the rosebud with his mother, who laid it on her pillow and went to sleep. Next morning, when the beams of the sun were shining into her chamber, she awoke, and found the Rose-Princess sleeping beside her.

“Are you not the Rose-Princess?” she asked, for of course she recognised the King’s daughter at once by her crown.

“Yes,” answered the Rose-Princess quickly; “but how did I get here? The last thing I remember before I went to sleep, was standing in Ardram’s room.”

“You must have walked here in your sleep, then,” said the sick woman, looking at her, “because he has been searching for you everywhere.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” said the Rose-Princess, rising. “I would not like him to think I’d run away, because I am so fond of him.”