"Fairy Stories" (continued 2)

“That must surely be the Spirit of the Winter himself,” she thought as she hurried indoors.

But her cheeks were rosy and her eyes bright. It was whispered in the palace that evening that for the first time the young Queen had the brave and fearless air of a true daughter of the north. And that winter was far the happiest that the King and his wife had yet spent. Scarce a murmur was heard to escape from the Queen’s lips, and in her anxiety to win the good-will of the Winter Spirit, she often went out sleighing and joined in the other amusements which hitherto she had refused to take any part in during the cold season. More than once, even, she was heard to express admiration of the snow-covered mountains, or of the wonderful northern sunsets and clear star-bespangled skies.

Nevertheless, the return of the warm and sunny days was watched for by her most eagerly. And the Summer Spirit was true to her promise. On the loveliest morning of all that year was born a baby Princess, the prettiest baby that ever was seen, with dark-blue eyes and little golden curls all over her head.

“A true child of the summer,” said the happy Queen.

“And strong to brave and enjoy the winter too, I trust,” added the King. “She must be a true Princess of the north, as her mother is fast becoming, I hope,” he went on with a smile.

But his words did not please the Queen, though they were so kindly meant. With the possession of the baby, though she was so overjoyed to have her, the young Queen’s wayward and dissatisfied spirit began to return. She seemed to think the Princess was to be only hers, that the nation and even the King, who naturally felt they had a share in her, must give way, in everything that concerned the child, to its mother’s will. She was even displeased one day when she overheard some of her ladies admiring the beautiful colour of the baby’s hair and saying that it showed her a true daughter of the north.

“No such thing,” said the Queen.

“It shows her a child of the sunshine and the summer. My sweet Rose!” for so, to please the Queen, the baby had been named.

On the whole, however, while the summer lasted the Queen was too happy with her baby to give way to any real murmuring, and once or twice when she might perhaps have done so, there was wafted to her by the breeze the sound of a gentle “Beware!” and she knew that the summer fairy was near.

So for the first winter of the baby’s life she was on her guard, and nothing went wrong, except now and then when the King reproached his wife with overcare of the child when the weather was at all severe.

“Do you wish to kill her?” the Queen would reply, angrily.

“I wish to make her brave and hardy, like all the daughters of our race,” replied the King.

But not wishing to distress his wife, he said no more, reflecting that it would be time enough when the little girl could walk and run to accustom her to the keen and bracing air of the northern winter.

But in some strange, mysterious way, the princess, baby though she was, seemed to understand what her father felt about her. It was noticed that before she could speak at all, she would dance in her nurse’s arms and stretch out her little hands with glee at the sight of the snowflakes falling steadily. And once or twice when a draught of the frosty air blew upon her she laughed with delight, instead of shrinking or shivering.

But so well were the Queen’s feelings understood that no one ventured to tell her of these clear signs that little Rose felt herself at home in the land of the snow.

Chapter Eight.

The Summer Princess—continued.

The winter passed and the summer came again—the second summer of the baby’s life. She had grown like the flowers, and was as happy as the butterflies. Never was a sweeter or a merrier child. The Queen idolised her, and the King loved her quite as dearly, though in a wiser way. And that summer passed very happily.

Unfortunately, however, the warm fine days came to an end unusually early that year. Many of the birds took flight for the south sooner than their wont, and the flowers drooped and withered as if afraid of what was coming.

The Queen noticed these signs with a sinking heart. Standing one chilly morning at the palace windows, she watched the grey autumn sky and sighed deeply.

“Alas, alas!” she said. “All the beauty and brightness are going again.”

She did not know that the King had entered the room, and was standing behind her.

“Nay,” he said, cheerfully. “You have no reason to feel so sad. If you have no other flower you have our little Rose, blooming as brightly in the winter as in the warmth.”

He meant it well, but it would have been wiser if he had said nothing. The Queen turned towards him impatiently.

“It is not so,” she said angrily.

“Rose is like me. She loves the summer and the sunshine! I do not believe she would live through your wretched northern winters but for my incessant care and constant watchfulness. And the anxiety is too much for me; it will wear me to death before she is grown up. Indeed there are times when I almost regret that she ever was born. The life in this country is but half a life. Would that I had known it before I ever came hither.”

It was rarely, discontented and complaining though she was, that the Queen had so yielded to her temper. The King was deeply hurt and disappointed, and he left the room without speaking. He was generally so kind and patient that this startled her, and brought her to her senses.

“How wrong of me to grieve him so by my wild words,” she thought, penitently. “And—” A sudden horror came over her. What had she been saying? What had she done? And the fairy’s warning returned to her memory: “If you forget your resolution, the slightest touch of snow will put the baby into my stern brother’s power, and you will find yourself terribly punished.”

The poor Queen shivered. Already to her excited fancy, as she glanced at the sky, it seemed that the lurid grey which betokened snow was coming over it.

“Oh, sweet Summer Spirit!” she cried; “forgive me and plead for me.” But a melancholy wail from the cold wind blowing through the trees in the grounds of the palace was the only reply; the summer fairy was far away.

The sky cleared again later that day, and for some short time the cold did not increase. But it would be difficult to describe what the Queen went through. It was useless to hope that the winter would pass without snow; for, so far north, such a thing had never been known. Still, no doubt, its coming appeared to be delayed, and the weather prophets felt somewhat at fault. The Queen began to breathe rather more freely again, in the hope that possibly her appeal to the Summer Spirit had, after all, been heard. Every one had noticed her pale and anxious looks; every one had noticed also how very gentle and uncomplaining she had become. She was so eager to make all the amends she could, that one day, when the King remarked that he thought it very wrong for the Princess to be so guarded from the open air as she had been lately, the Queen, though with fear and trembling, gave orders that the baby should be taken out.

“I will accompany her myself,” she said to the attendants; so the little Princess was wrapped up in her costly furs and placed in her tiny chariot drawn by goats, the Queen walking beside her.

The little girl laughed with delight, and chattered in her baby way about everything she saw. She seemed like a little prisoner suddenly set at liberty; for the last few weeks had been spent by the poor little thing in rooms specially prepared, where no breath of the outer air could find its way in.

“For who knows,” thought the Queen, “how some tiny flake of snow might be wafted down the chimney, or through the slightest chink of the window.”

To-day, in spite of her anxiety, the baby’s happy face made her mother’s heart feel lighter.

“Surely,” she said to herself, “it must be a sign that I am forgiven, and that all will yet be well.”

And to please her little daughter she took her farther than she had intended, even entering a little way into a pine wood skirting the palace grounds at one side, a favourite resort of hers in the summer.

The Princess’s nurse picked up some fir-cones and gave them to the little girl, who threw them about in glee and called out for more. They were all so busy playing with her that they did not notice how, above the heads of the tall fir-trees, the sky was growing dark and overcast, till suddenly a strange, chill blast made the Queen gather her mantle round her and gaze up in alarm.

“We must hasten home,” she said; “it is growing so cold.”

“Yes, indeed,” said one of the ladies; “it almost looks like—” But the Queen interrupted her; she could not bear even the mention of the fatal word.

“Wrap up the Princess!” she exclaimed. “Cover her over, face and all! Never mind if she cries! My darling, we shall be home directly. The cold wind would hurt you,” added she to the little girl.

Then they hurried back to the palace as quickly as the goats could be persuaded to go, even the Queen herself running fast to keep up with the little carriage.

They were within a short distance of the palace before any snow fell, though it was clear to be seen that it was not far off; and the Queen was beginning to breathe again more freely, when suddenly Princess Rose, who had behaved beautifully till now, with a cry of baby mischief, pushed away the shawl that was over her face, shouting with glee. At that very moment the first fluttering snowflakes began to fall. The little Princess opened wide her eyes as she caught sight of them, and smiled as if in greeting; and alas! before the terrified Queen had time to replace the covering the child had thrown off, one solitary flake alighted on her cheek, melting there into a tiny drop which looked like a tear, though still the little Princess smiled.

The Queen seized the child in her arms, and, though her heart had almost ceased beating with terror, rushed up the long flights of steps, all through the great halls and corridors like a mad creature, nor stopped even to draw breath till she had reached the Princess’s apartments, and had her safe in the rooms specially prepared for her during the winter.

But was she safe? Was it not already too late? With trembling dread the Queen drew away the furs and shawls wrapped round the baby, almost expecting to find her changed in some strange way, perhaps even dead; and it was with thankfulness that she saw that little Rose was still herself—sweet and smiling in her sleep. For she was fast asleep.

“The darling, the precious angel,” thought the poor mother as she laid her in her little cot, just as the ladies, and nurses, and all the attendants came trooping into the room. “She is only asleep,” said the Queen, in a whisper.

“Nothing has happened to her—she is sleeping sweetly.”

The ladies stared—the Queen’s behaviour had been so strange they could not understand her.

“It is a pity to be so anxious about the child,” they said to each other. “It will bring no blessing,” for they thought it all came from the Queen’s foolish terror lest the little Princess should catch cold, and they shook their heads.

But the Queen seemed full of thankfulness, very gentle, and subdued. Many times that afternoon she came back to see if little Rose was well—the baby looked a picture of health, but—she was still sleeping.

“The fresh keen air has made her drowsy, I suppose,” said the head nurse, late in the evening when the Queen returned again.

“And she has had nothing to eat since the middle of the day,” said the mother, anxiously. “I almost think if she does not wake of herself in an hour or so, you will have to rouse her.”

To this the nurse agreed. But two hours later, on the Queen’s next visit to the nursery, there was a strange report to give her. The nurse had tried to wake the baby, but it was all in vain. Little Rose just smiled sweetly and rolled over on her other side, without attempting in the least to open her eyes. It seemed cruel to disturb her. She was so very sleepy.

“I think we must let the Princess have her sleep out—children are like that sometimes,” said the nurse.

And the Queen was forced to agree to it, though she had a strange sinking at the heart, and even the King when he came to look at his little daughter felt uneasy, though he tried to speak cheerfully.

“No doubt she will awake in the morning quite bright and merry,” he said,—“all the brighter and merrier for sleeping a good round and a half of the clock.”

The morning dawned—the slow-coming winter daylight of the north found its way into the Princess’s nursery through the one thickly glazed window—a tiny gleam of ruddy sunshine even managed to creep in to kiss her dimpled cheek, but still the baby slept—as soundly as if the night was only beginning. And matters grew serious.

It was no use trying to wake her. They all did their best—King, Queen, ladies, nurses; and after them the great court physicians and learned men of every kind. All were summoned and all consulted, and as the days went on, a hundred different things were tried. They held the strongest smelling salts to her poor little nostrils; the baby only drew up her small nose the least bit in the world and turned over again with a tiny snore. They rang the bells, they had the loudest German bands to be found far or near to play all at once in her room; they fetched all the pet dogs in the neighbourhood and set them snarling and snapping at each other close beside her; as a last resource they lifted her out of bed and plunged her into a cold bath—she did not even shiver!

And with tears rolling down their faces, the Queen and the ladies and the nurses wrapped her up again and put her back cosily to bed, where she seemed as contented as ever, while they all sat down together to have a good cry, which, sad to say, was of no use at all.

“She is bewitched,” said the cleverest of all the doctors, and as time went on, everybody began to agree with him. Even the King himself was obliged to think something of the kind must be at the bottom of it, and at last one day the Queen, unable to endure her remorse any longer, told him the whole story, entreating him to forgive her for having by her discontent and murmuring brought upon him so great a sorrow.

The King was very kind but very grave.

“I understand it now,” he said. “The summer fairy told you true. Our northern Winter Spirit is indeed stern and implacable; we must submit—if we are patient and resigned it is possible that in the future even his cold heart may be melted by the sight of our suffering.”

“It is only I who deserve it,” wept the poor Queen. “The worst part of it all is to know that I have brought this sorrow upon you, my dear husband.”

And so repentant was she that she almost forgot to think of herself—never had she been so sweet and loving a wife. She did everything she possibly could to please and cheer the King, concealing from him the many bitter tears she shed as she sat for hours together beside the sleeping child.

The winter was terribly severe—never had the snow lain more thickly, never had the wind-blasts raged and howled more furiously. Often did the Queen think to herself that the storm spirits must be infuriated at her very presence in their special domain.

“They might pity me now,” she thought, “now that I am so punished;” but she bore all the winter cold and terrors uncomplainingly, nay, even cheerfully, nerving herself to go out alone in the bitterest weather with a sort of hope of pleasing the winter fairy; possibly if she could but see him, of making an appeal to him. But for many months he held his icy sway—often indeed it seemed as if gentler times were never to return.

Then suddenly one night the frost went; a mild soft breeze replaced the fierce blast; spring had come. And wonderful to relate, the very next morning the Queen was roused by loud knockings and voices at her door; trembling, she knew not why, she opened it; and the head nurse fell at her feet laughing and crying at once. The Princess had awakened!

Yes; there she was, chattering in her baby way, smiling and rosy, as if nothing had been the matter. She held out her arms to her mother, calling “Mamma,” in the most delightful way; she knew her father again quite well; she was very hungry for her breakfast. Oh! the joy of her parents, and the jubilation all through the palace! I could not describe it.

And all through the summer little Rose was wide awake, in the day-time that is to say, just like other children. She was as well and strong and happy as a baby could be. But—the summer will not last for ever; again returned the autumn bringing with it the signs of the approaching winter, and one morning when her nurse went to awaken the Princess, she found it was no use—Rose was sleeping again, with a smile on her face, calm and content, but alas! not to be awakened! And then it was remembered that the first snow had fallen during the night.

More to satisfy the Queen than with the hope of its doing any good, all the efforts of the year before were repeated, but with no success. And gradually the child’s distressed parents resigned themselves to the sad truth: their daughter was to be theirs only for half her life; for full six months out of every twelve, she was to be in a sense as far away from them as if the winter monarch had carried her off to his palace of ice altogether.

But no; it was not quite so bad as that would have been. And the Queen, who was fast learning to count her blessings instead of her troubles, smiled through her tears as she said to the King what a mercy it was that they were still able to watch beside their precious child—to kiss her soft warm cheek every morning and every night.

And so it went on. In the spring the Princess woke up again, bright and well and lively, and in every way six months older than when she had fallen asleep; so that, to see her in the summer time, no one could have guessed the strange spell that was over her. She became the sweetest and most charming girl in the world; only one thing ever saddened her, and that was any mention of the winter, especially of snow.

“What does it mean?” she would ask sometimes. “What are they talking of? Show me this wonderful thing! Where does it grow? I want to see it.”

But no one could make her understand; and at these times a very strange look would come into her blue eyes.

“I must see it,” she said. “Some day I shall go away and travel far, far, till I find it.”

These words used to distress her mother more, than she could say; and she would shower presents and treasures on her daughter, of flowers and singing-birds, and lovely embroidered dresses—all to make her think of the sunshine and the summer. And for the time they would please the girl, till again she shook her head and murmured—“I want the snow.”

So the years followed each other, till Rose was sixteen. Every winter the Queen had a faint hope, which, however, grew ever fainter and fainter, that the spell was perhaps to be broken. But it was not so. And strange stories got about concerning the Princess—some saying she was a witch in disguise; others that she had no heart or understanding; others that she turned into a bird or some animal during half her life—so that the neighbouring Princes, in spite of her beauty and sweetness, were afraid to ask her in marriage. And this brought new sorrow to her parents. For she was their only child.

“What will become of her after we are dead and gone?” they said. “Who will care for and protect our darling? Who will help her to rule over our nation? No people will remain faithful to a sovereign who is only awake half the year. There will be revolts and rebellion, and our angel Rose may perhaps be put to death, or driven away.”

And they fretted so over this, that the hair of both King and Queen grew white long before its time. But Rose only loved them the more on this account, for she had heard some one say that white hair was like snow; though she kept the fancy to herself, for she knew it troubled the Queen if ever she mentioned the strange, mysterious word.

She was so lovely that painters came from many countries just to see her face, and, if possible, be allowed to make a picture of her. And one of these portraits found its way to the court of a King who was a distant cousin of her father, and who had heard the strange things said of the Princess. He was very angry about it, for he had two sons, and he was afraid of their falling in love with the beautiful face. So he ordered the picture to be destroyed before the elder Prince, who was away on a visit, came home.

But the servant who was to burn the picture thought it such a pity to do so, that he only hid it away in a lumber-room; and thither, as fate would have it, came the younger Prince one day in search of a pet kitten of his sister’s which had strayed away; for he was a Prince of a most kind and amiable nature.

The moment he saw the picture he fell in love with it. He made inquiry, and heard all there was to tell. Then he arrayed himself for a journey, and came to bid his father farewell.

“I go,” he said, “to woo the Princess Rose for my bride.” And in spite of all the king could say he kept firm.

“If she is a witch,” he said, “I would rather perish by her hands than live with any other.”

And amidst tears and lamentations he set out.

He was received with great delight at the court of Princess Rose’s parents, though he came without any pomp or display; for he lost no time in telling the King and Queen the reason of his visit. Knowing him to be a Prince of most estimable character, they were overjoyed to hear of his resolve.

“I only trust,” said the Queen, “that all may go well. But, as you have doubtless heard, our darling child, despite her beauty and goodness, is under a strange spell.”

She then proceeded to tell him the whole matter, of which he had already heard garbled accounts.

He was relieved to find that the enchantment was of no worse a nature, and declared that it made no difference in his intentions, but rather increased his love for the Princess. And when he first set eyes on her (more beautiful by far than even the beautiful portrait), he felt that his whole life would not be too much to devote to her, even considering her strange affliction.

“And who knows,” he said to himself, “but that such love as mine may find out a way to release her from the spell?”

The Princess quickly learned to like him. She had never before had a companion so near her own age, and the last days of the summer passed most happily, till the time came when the Prince thought he might venture to ask her to be his wife.

They were walking on the terrace in front of the castle when he did so. It had been a lovely day, but the afternoon had grown chilly; and as the Princess listened to his words, a cold breath of wind passed near them.

The Princess started; and, aware of the Queen’s anxiety about her, the Prince hastily proposed that they should return to the house; but Rose looked at him with a light in her eyes which he had never before seen, and a strange smile broke over her face.

“It is new life to me,” she said.

“Can you not understand, you who are yourself a child of the north? Yes, Prince, I will marry you on one condition, that you will show me the snow—but on no other.”

Then she turned, and, without another word, walked slowly back to the palace.

Prince Orso, for so he was called, felt terribly distressed.

“The spell is upon her,” he thought to himself. “She asks me to do what would probably kill her, or separate her for ever from all who love her.” And the King and Queen, when they heard his story, were nearly as disappointed as he.

But that very night the Prince had a strange dream. He thought he was walking in the wood near the castle, when again a chill blast, but still more icy, swept past him, and he heard a voice speaking to him. It sounded hoarse and stern.

“Orso,” it said, “you’re as foolish as the rest. Have you no trust? See what came of rebellion against me, who, after all, love my many children as dearly as does my sister of the summer. Leave the Princess to the leadings of her own heart, and dare not to interfere.”

Then with a crash as of thunder the spirit went on his way. And the Prince awoke to find that the window of his room had been dashed in by the force of a sudden gale which had arisen.

But the next morning all was again calm. It almost seemed as if the milder weather was returning again; and the Queen looked brighter; but it was not so with the Princess, who was silent and almost sad. And so things continued for some days.

At last the Prince could bear it no longer. One afternoon when he found himself alone with the Princess, he turned to her suddenly.

“Princess,” he said, “can you not give me another answer? You must know that I would fain promise anything you wish; but I dare not bind myself to what might perhaps do you some injury.”

Rose turned towards him impatiently.

“That is just it,” she said. “I am always met by excuses when I ask for the one thing I really desire. What is there about me different from others? Why should I so often hear of what others seem to understand, and not have it explained to me? I am no longer a child; in my dreams I see things I cannot put in words; and beautiful as the world is, I feel that I only half know it. I long for what they call the winter, and what they call the snow, and they never come. Only the cold wind, which I have felt once or twice, brings new life to me, and fills me with strange joy.”

The Prince hesitated. He understood her perfectly, for he was himself of the same brave and hardy race. Yet the Queen’s forebodings made him tremble. The Princess’s words reminded him of his own dream; and again he felt as if he heard the voice of the stern Winter Spirit. And as if in answer to his uncertainty, at that moment the howl of the cold blast sounded near them among the trees, and lurid clouds began to gather overhead.

The Princess’s face lighted up.

“Ah,” she exclaimed, “it is coming again!”

“I fear so indeed,” said Orso; and in his terror for her he caught her hand and would have hurried her back to the palace.

But at that moment a shrill little cry was heard overhead not far from where they stood, and glancing up they saw a bird of prey clutching a smaller one in his claws. With a terrible effort the captive managed to free himself, but he was sadly wounded; and as Rose gazed upwards in great concern, she saw him fall fluttering feebly to the ground. All else was forgotten in the sight.

“Poor bird,” she cried. “Let me go, Prince; I must find him where he has fallen, or a cruel death of slow suffering will be his.”

The Prince loosed her hand; he dared not hold her back, though he could have done so.

“Leave her to the guidings of her own heart,” resounded in his ears.

Almost at once she was lost to his sight among the trees which grew very closely; almost at the same moment, to his horror, something cold and soft touched his face, and lifting his eyes, he saw that the snowflakes were falling thickly. If harm was to betide, it was too late to save her; but he pressed forward in unspeakable anxiety.

It was some little time before he found her; and no reply came to his calls; but at last he caught sight of something blue on the ground. It was the Princess’s robe; and there, indeed, she lay motionless—her eyes closed, a sweet smile on her face, the little wounded bird tenderly clasped in her hands.

And now I may tell you that this wounded bird was the friend from whom I had the story; for, as you will hear, he had plenty of opportunity of learning it all.

Orso threw himself on the ground beside the Princess.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, “my carelessness has killed her. How can I ever dare to face the King and Queen? Oh! Winter Spirit, you have indeed deceived me.”

But as he said the words the Princess opened her eyes.

“No, Prince,” she said. “I am not dead. I am not even asleep. It was the strange gladness that seemed to take away my breath for a moment, and I must have sunk down without knowing. But now I feel stronger and happier than ever in my life before, now that I have seen and felt the beautiful snow of my own country, now that I have breathed the winter air I have been longing for always,” and she sprang to her feet, her blue eyes sparkling with delight, looking lovelier than he had ever seen her.

“Orso,” she went on, half shyly, “you have done what I asked you; through you I have seen the snow,” and she held out her hand, which, white though it was, looked pink in comparison with the little flakes which were fluttering down on it.

The Prince was overjoyed, but he hesitated.

“I fear,” he said, “that in reality you should rather thank the poor little bird, or most of all your own kind heart.”

“Poor little bird,” she replied, looking at it as it lay in her other hand. “It is not dead. I will do all I can for it! Let us hasten home, Prince, so that I may bind up its poor wing. My father and mother too will be anxious about me.”

And together they returned to the palace. One glance at the Princess as she came in sprinkled over with snow showed the Queen that the spell was at last broken. And her joy was past all words.

My friend recovered slowly. He spent all the winter in the palace, tenderly cared for by the Princess Rose, only flying away when the warm sunny days returned. He pays them a visit still every summer to show his gratitude, and tells me that in all his travels he seldom sees a happier family than his friends in the old palace away up in the far, far northern land.

“Thank you,” said the children, “Thank you, oh so much!” But whether the bird heard them or not they could not tell—he had already flown away.

Chapter Nine.

The Christmas Surprise.

For some days the story of the bewitched Princess gave Rafe and Alix enough to talk about, and to play at too, for they invented a game in which Alix was supposed to fall into an enchanted sleep if Rafe succeeded in touching her with a branch of leaves, which represented snowflakes; and as she was a very quick runner it was not so easy as it sounds.

Besides, by this time the Easter holidays were over and lessons had begun again. The children had not too many lessons, however, and always a good part of the afternoon to themselves, and they remained faithful to the old garden as their favourite playground. So some hours of every day—of every fine day at least—were spent there, and though they had not seen the old caretaker a second time, nor ever managed to find the concealed door in the rough stone wall again, hunt for it as they would, still they had sometimes a queer, mysterious, pleasant feeling that she knew about them—knew they were there, and was perhaps even peeping out at them through some hidden hole.

It would have been a great sorrow to them if they had had to give up their visits to the garden. But fortunately their nurse rather approved of their playing there. There was something that brought good luck with it about the Lady wood grounds. No ill-chance ever happened to them there, no tumbles or sprained ankles, or torn clothes, or such not uncommon misfortunes when children are by themselves. Best of all, they almost never quarrelled when in the old garden, and perhaps that had a good deal to do with the keeping clear of other troubles.

They were growing “quite to be trusted,” nurse told their mother, and it scarcely seemed needful for them to go regular walks now, which nurse was very glad of, as it left her free to get on nicely with all the needlework, in which—next to a baby, and there had been no new baby since Alix—her heart delighted.

So the discovery of the pleasures of the deserted manor suited everybody.

But after a while, the children began to think it was time to have another story, and to wonder if their old friend had forgotten them, or possibly gone away. There was no use hunting any more for the hidden door; they had hurt their fingers and tired themselves to no purpose in doing so already. And at last they came to the conclusion that if Mrs Caretaker didn’t want them to find it, it was no use trying, and that if she did, she would soon find ways and means of fetching them.

“Unless, of course,” said Alix, “she has gone. Perhaps she’s like the birds, you know—only turned the other way. I mean perhaps she goes off in the summer, once she’s started everything, and all the plants and things are growing beautifully now, in their wild way. You see she’s not like a regular trim gardener—she doesn’t want them to grow all properly like you can see anywhere.”

“Still she must take great care of them somehow,” said Rafe thoughtfully, “for you know people often notice how few weeds there are about Ladywood, and in full summer the wild flowers are quite wonderful. And the birds—it’s always here the nightingales are heard the best.”

Alix looked up. They were sitting in their favourite place, at the foot of some very tall trees.

“If we’d had any sense,” she said, “we might almost have seen for ourselves long ago that there was something fairy about the place, even before the wren led us here.”

The mention of the wren made her remember something she had noticed.

“Rafe,” she went on, “do you know I’ve seen a little robin hopping about us the last day or two, and chirping in a talking sort of way. I forgot to tell you. I wonder if he has anything to say to us, for you know there were two birds that wanted to tell us stories.”

“Per—” began Rafe in his slow fashion.

But before he had time to get to “haps” his sister caught hold of his arm.

“Hush!” she whispered, “there he is.”

Yes, there he was, and “he” was a robin.

He hopped about in front of them for a minute or two, now and then cocking his head on one side and looking at them over his shoulder, as it were, as if to see whether he had caught their attention. Then he flew up a little way, and settled himself on a branch not far from them, with a peculiar little chirp.

“I believe,” said Alix, still in a whisper, “I believe he wants us to speak to him.”

“Try,” replied Rafe.

“Robin,” said Alix, clearly though softly, “robin, have you come to see us? Have you got a message for us from Mrs Caretaker, perhaps?”

The bird looked at her reproachfully. I don’t know that she could see it was reproachfully, but from the way he held his head it was plain to any one that he was not altogether pleased.

Then came a succession of chirps, and gradually, just as had happened before, by dint of listening very attentively and keeping quite, quite quiet, bits of words and then words themselves began to grow out of the chirping. To tell the truth, if any one had passed that way, he or she would have imagined Rafe and Alix were asleep. For there they sat, like a picture of the babes in the wood—Alix’s head resting on her brother’s shoulder, and his arm thrown round her—quite motionless. But they weren’t asleep, of course, for their two pairs of eyes were fixed on the little red-breasted fellow up above them.

“So you had forgotten all about me,” in a melancholy tone, quite unlike a cheery little robin. “I gave up to that other fellow and let him tell his story first. I suppose you don’t care to hear mine.”

“Oh, dear robin, of course we do,” said Alix. “But you see we didn’t understand.”

“I’ve been following you about all these days. I’m sure you might have seen me, and I’ve been asking you over and over again if you didn’t want to listen.”

“But you see, dear robin, we couldn’t understand what you said. It takes a good while to get used to—to your way of speaking, you know,” said Alix. She was desperately afraid of hurting his feelings still more.

“I am afraid that is not the real reason. You think a robin’s story is sure to be stupid. You see I am not one of those fine travelled fellows—the swallows and the martins, and all the rest of them—who spend the winter in the south and know such a lot of the world. I’m only a home bird. Here I was hatched and here I have lived, and mean to live till I die. It’s quite true that my story is a very stupid one. I’ve made no fine acquaintances such as kings and queens and princesses, and I’ve never visited at court, north or south either, so you know what you have to expect.”

He seemed rather depressed, but less offended than he had been.

“Please begin,” said Rafe. “I’m sure we shall like your story. We don’t want always to hear the same kind.” The robin cleared his throat.

“Such as it is,” he began, “I can vouch for the truth of it, as it happened to be my own self. I didn’t ‘have it’ from any one else. And in my own mind I have given it the name of ‘The Christmas Surprise.’”

And after he had cleared his throat again for the last time, he went straight on.

“I have often noticed,” he began, “that whatever we have not got, whatever is not ours or with us at the present moment, is the thing we prize the most. This applies both to birds and human beings, and it is often the case about the seasons of the year. There is a great charm about absence. In the winter we are always looking forward to the spring and the summer; in the hot summer we think of the cool shady days of autumn, of the cheerful fires and merry doings that come with Christmas. I am speaking especially of men and women and children just now, but there is a good deal of the same kind of thing among us birds, though you mightn’t think it. And of all birds, I think we robins have the most sympathy with human folk. We really love Christmas time; it is gratifying to know how much we are thought of at that season—how our portraits are sent about by one friend to another, how our figures are placed on your Christmas trees, and how every one thinks of us with kindness. And except by very thoughtless people we are generally cared for well. During a hard winter it is seldom that our wants are forgotten. I myself,” and here he plumed himself importantly, “I myself have been most fortunate in this respect. There are at least a dozen houses within easy flight of Ladywood where I am always sure of a good breakfast of crumbs.”

“But,” began Alix, rather timidly, “please don’t mind my interrupting you, but doesn’t Mrs Caretaker look after you? I thought that was what she was here for, to take care of all the living creatures in this garden.”

“Exactly so, exactly so,” said the robin, hastily, “far be it from me to make any complaint. I would not change my home for the garden of a palace. But, as I have said, I think we robins have much sympathy with your race. Human beings interest me extremely. I like to study their characters. So I go about in my own part of the country a good deal, and thus I know the ways of many of my wingless neighbours pretty intimately. Thus comes it that I have stories to tell, all from my own observation, you see. Well, as I was remarking, we often love to dwell in fancy on what is not ours at present, so as it is really like a summer day, quite hot for the time of year, I daresay it will amuse you to transport your thoughts to Christmas time. Most of my human stories belong to that season, for it is then we have so much to do with you. The Christmas of which I am going to tell you was what is called an ‘old-fashioned one,’—though it strikes me that snowy, frosty, very cold Christmases are fast becoming new-fashioned again—ah, it was cold! I was a young bird then; it was my first experience of frost and snow, and in spite of my feathers I did shiver, I can tell you. Still I enjoyed it; I was strong and hearty, and I began to make acquaintance with the houses in the neighbourhood, at several of which one was pretty sure of a breakfast in front of some window.

“There was a very large house which had been shut up for some time, as the owners were abroad. It had a charming terrace in front, and my friends and I often regretted that it was not inhabited. For the terrace faced south and all the sunshine going was sure to be found there, and it would have been a pleasant resort for us. And one morning our wishes were fulfilled. I met a cousin of mine flying off in great excitement.

”‘The Manor House is open again,’ he told me. ‘Come quickly. Through the windows on to the terrace, fires are to be seen in all the rooms, and they are evidently preparing for a merry Christmas. No doubt they will not forget us, but it is as well to remind them that we should be glad of some crumbs.’

“I flew off with him, and found it just as he had said. The house had quite a different appearance; it looked bright and cheery, and in one room a large party was assembled at breakfast. We—for several of us were there—hopped up and down the terrace for some little time, but no notice was taken of us. So one by one my companions flew away, remarking that it was no use wasting their time; they would look in again some other day when perhaps the new-comers would have thought of them. But I remained behind; I was not very busy, being a young bird, and I felt a wish to see something of the family who had been so long absent, for I am of what some people call a ‘curious’ disposition; I myself should rather describe it as observant and thoughtful.

“I perched close beside the dining-room window and peeped in. There were several grown-up people, but only two children; two little girls, very prettily dressed, but thin and pale, and with a somewhat discontented expression of face. After a while, when the meal was over and all had risen from the table, the children came to the window with a young lady and stood looking out.

“Oh, how cold it is,” said one of them shivering, “I wish papa and mamma had not come back to England. I liked India much better.”

“So did I,” said the other little girl. “I don’t want to go a walk when it’s so cold. Need we go, Miss Meadows? And yet I don’t know what to do in the house. I’m tired of all our toys. We shall have new ones next week when Christmas Day comes; that’s a good thing.”

The young lady they called Miss Meadows looked rather troubled. In her heart she thought the children had far too many toys already, and she felt sure they would get tired of the new ones before they had had them long.

“I don’t care much for Christmas except for the toys,” said the first little girl. “Do you, Miss Meadows?”

“Yes, indeed I do, Norna dear,” she said. “And I think in your heart you really care for it too—and Ivy also. You both know why it should be so cared for.”

“Oh, yes; in that sort of a way, I know it would be naughty not to care for it,” said Norna, looking a little ashamed. “But it’s different when you’ve lived in England, I suppose. Mamma has told us stories of Christmas when she was little, that sounded very nice—all about carols, and lots of cousins playing together, and presents, and school feasts. But we haven’t any cousins to play with. Had you, Miss Meadows, at your own home?”

Miss Meadows’ eyes looked rather odd for a moment. She turned away for half an instant and then she seemed all right again.

“I had lots of brothers and sisters,” she said, “and that’s even better than cousins.”

It was her first Christmas away from home, and she had only been a few days with Norna and Ivy.

“I wish we had!” sighed Norna, who always wanted what she had not got.

“But surely there are some things you can have that would cheer you up,” said Miss Meadows. “Perhaps it is too soon to settle about school feasts just yet, but have you no presents to get ready for any one?”

“No,” sighed Ivy. “Mamma has everything she wants; and so have we. It’s rubbish giving each other presents just to say they’re presents.”

“Yes,” said Miss Meadows. “I think it is. But—”

She said no more, for just then Ivy touched her, and whispered softly,—

“I do believe there’s a real little robin redbreast. Don’t let’s frighten him away.”

The child’s eyes sparkled with pleasure; she looked quite different.

“It’s the first real one we’ve ever seen,” said she and Norna together.

“Poor little man!” said their governess; “he must be hungry to be so tame. Let us throw crumbs every morning, children. I am sure your mamma won’t mind. This terrace is a splendid place.”

The idea pleased them mightily. I hid myself in the ivy for a few moments, and when I came out again, there was a delightful spread all ready. So I flew down and began to profit by it, expressing my thanks, of course, in a well-bred manner. The window was still open, and I heard some words that Miss Meadows murmured to herself:

“I wish I could find out some little service for others that they could do, even this first Christmas,” she said.

“They would be so much happier, poor little things! Dear robin, I am even grateful to you for making me think of throwing out crumbs.”

She looked so sweet that my heart warmed to her, and I wished I could help her. And at that moment an idea struck me. You will soon hear what it was.

I had another visit to pay that morning; indeed I had been on my way to do so when the exciting news about the Manor House attracted me thither. But now I flew off, to the little home where I was always welcome. It was a very small cottage at the outskirts of the same village of which the home of the newly-returned family was the great house. In this cottage lived a couple and their two children—a boy and a girl. They had always been poor, but striving and thrifty, so that the little place looked bright and comfortable though so bare, and the children tidy and rosy. But now, alas! things had changed for the worse. A bad accident to the father, who was a woodcutter, had entirely crippled him; and though some help was given them, it was all the poor mother could do to keep out of the workhouse. I made a point of visiting the cottage every day; it cheered them up, and there were generally some crumbs for me. But this morning—not that it mattered to me after my good breakfast at the Manor House—there were none; and as I alighted on the sill of the little kitchen and looked in, everything was dull and cheerless. No fire was lighted; the two children, Jem and Joyce, sat crouched together on the settle by the empty grate as if to gain a little warmth from each other. They looked blue and pinched, and scarcely awake; but when they saw me at the window they brightened up a little.

“There’s robin,” said Joyce. “Poor robin! we’ve nothing for you this morning.”

A small pane was broken in the window and pasted over with paper, but a corner was torn, and so I could hear what they said.

“No indeed,” said Jem; “we’ve had nothing ourselves—not since yesterday at dinner time. And it is so cold.”

I stood still on one leg, and chirped that I was very sorry. I think they understood me.

“Mother’s gone to Farmer Bantry’s,” said Joyce, as if she was glad to have some one—“even a bird,” some folk who know precious little about us would say—to tell her troubles to. “They’re cleanin’ up for Christmas, and she’ll get a shilling and maybe some broken victuals, she said. So we’re tryin’ to go to sleep again to make the time pass.”

“There was two sixpences yesterday,” said Jem, mournfully; “and one would ’a got some coal, and t’other some bread and tea. But the doctor said as father must have somefin’—” (Jem was only five and Joyce eight)—“queer stuff—I forget the name—to wunst. So mother she went to the shop, and father’s got the stuff, and he’s asleep; but we’ve not had nuffin’.”

“And Christmas is coming next week, mother says,” Joyce added. “Last Christmas we had new shoes, and meat for dinner.”

I was sadly grieved for them. Joyce spoke in a dull, broken sort of tone that did not sound like a child. But I hoped to serve them better than by standing there repeating my regret; so, after a few more chirps of sympathy, I flew off.

“Robin doesn’t care to stay,” said Jem, dolefully.

Later in the day I met the children’s mother trudging home. She looked tired; but she had a basket on her arm, so I hoped the farmer’s wife had given them some scraps which would help them for the time.

Now I had a plan in my head. Late that afternoon, after flying all round the Manor House and peeping in at a great many windows, I perched in the ivy—there was ivy over a great part of the walls—just outside one on the first floor. It was the children’s bedroom. I waited anxiously, afraid that I might have no chance of getting in; but fortunately for me the fire smoked a little when it was lighted in the evening for the young ladies to be dressed by, and the nurse opened the window a tiny bit, so in I flew, very careful not to be seen, you may be sure. I found a very cosy corner on the edge of a picture in a dark part of the room, and there I had time for a nap before Norna and Ivy came to bed. Then when all was silent for the night, I flew down and took up my quarters on the rail at the head of Norna’s bed; and when I had spent an hour or so beside her, I gently fluttered across to her sister; and though I was chirping nearly all the time, my voice was so low that no one entering the room would have noticed it; or if they had done so, they would probably have thought it a drowsy cricket, half aroused by the pleasant warmth of the fire.

But my chirping did more than soothe my little friends’ slumbers (and here the robin cocked his head afresh and looked very solemn). Children (he said), human beings know very little about themselves. You don’t know, for instance, anything at all about yourselves when you’re asleep, or what dreams really are. You speak of being “sleepy,” or half-asleep, as if it meant something very stupid; whereas, sometimes when you are whole asleep, you are much wiser than when you are awake. Now it is not my business to teach you things you’re perhaps not meant to understand at present, but this I can tell you—if I perched on your pillows at night when you’re asleep, and chirped in my own way to you, you’d have no difficulty in understanding me. And this was what happened to the two little maidens a few nights before their first Christmas in England. They thought they had had a wonderful dream—each of them separately, and they never knew that the robin who flew out of the window early in the morning before any one noticed him, had had anything to do with it.

I (for it was I myself, of course) perched again in the ivy beside the dining-room window, partly, I allow, with a view to breakfast; partly and principally to see what would happen.

They did not forget me—us, perhaps I should say, for several other birds collected on the terrace, thanks to the news I had scattered about—and as soon as those within had risen from table, Miss Meadows and her two little companions came to the window, which they opened, and threw out a splendid plateful of crumbs. It was not so cold this morning. I hopped close to them, for I wanted to hear what they were saying as they stood by the open window-door, all the grown-up people having left the room.

The pale little faces looked bright and eager, and very full of something their owners were relating.

“Yes, Miss Meadows; it was quite wonderful. Ivy dreamed it, and I dreamed it. I believe it was a fairy dream.”

“And please do let us try to find out if there are any poor children like that near here,” said Ivy. “I don’t think there could be; do you, Miss Meadows?”

Miss Meadows shook her head.

“I’m afraid, dear, it is not uncommon in either town or country to find children quite as poor as those you dreamt of. But when we go out a walk to-day, we’ll try and inquire a little. It would be nice if you could do something for other people even this first Christmas in England.”

She looked quite bright and eager herself; and as the three started off down the drive about an hour later, on their way to the village, I noticed that they were all talking eagerly, and that Norna and Ivy were giving little springs as they walked along one on each side of their kind governess; and I must confess I felt pleased to think I had had some hand in this improvement.

Miss Meadows had lived most of her life in the country, and she was accustomed to country ways. So she meant to go to the village, and there try to pick up a little information about any of the families who might be very poor this Christmas time. But I had no intention of letting them go so far—no indeed—I knew what I was about.

The cottage of my little friends, Joyce and Jem, was about half-way between the Manor House and the village, and the village was a good mile from the great house. A lane led from the high road to the cottage. Just as the three reached the corner of the lane, Ivy gave a little cry.

“Miss Meadows, Norna,” she said, “there is the robin. I’m sure it’s our robin. Don’t you think it is, Miss Meadows?”

The governess smiled.

“There are a great many robins, Ivy dear. It’s not very likely it’s the same one. We human beings are too stupid to tell the difference between birds of the same kind, you see.”

But, as you know, Ivy was right.

“Do let’s follow him a little way down the lane,” she said. “He keeps hopping on and then looking back at us. I wonder if his home is down here.”

No, it was not my home, but it was my little friends’ home; and soon I managed to bring the little party to a standstill before the cottage gate, where I had perched.

“What a nice cottage,” said Norna; and so it looked at the first glance. But in a moment or two she added: “Oh, do look at that little girl; how very thin and pale she is!”

It was Joyce. Miss Meadows called to her; and in her kind way soon got the little girl to tell her something of their troubles. Things were even worse with them to-day; for Jem’s feet were so bad with chilblains that he could not get about at all. The governess satisfied herself that there was no illness in the cottage that could hurt Norna and Ivy, and then they all went in to see poor Jem; and Miss Meadows went upstairs to speak to the bedridden father. When she came down again her face looked very sad, but bright too.

“Children,” she said, as soon as they were out on the road again, “I don’t think we need go on to the village. We have found what we were looking for.”

Then she went on to tell them that she had left a message with the woodcutter, asking his wife to come up to speak to her that evening at the Manor House.

“I know your mamma won’t mind,” she said. “I will tell her all about it as soon as we get home. She will like you to try to do something for these poor children,”—which was quite true. The lady of the Manor was kind and gentle; only, you see, many years in India had got her out of English ways.

So that evening, when the woodcutter’s wife came up to the great house, there was a grand consultation. And for some days to come, for Christmas was very near, Ivy and Norna were so busy that they had no time to grumble at the cold or to wish they were back in India, though they did find time to skip and dance along the passages, and to sing verses of the carols Miss Meadows was teaching them.

Things improved at the cottage from that day. But it is about Christmas morning I want to tell you.

Joyce and Jem woke early—long before it was light—but they lay still and spoke in a whisper, not to wake their poor father or their tired mother. There was no one to hear except a little robin, who had managed to creep in the night before.

“It’s Christmas, Jem,” said Joyce; “and we shall have a nice fire. They’ve sent mother some coals from the great house; and I believe we’re going to have meat for dinner.”

Jem sighed with pleasure. He could scarcely believe it.

“Shall we go to church like last Christmas, Joyce?” he asked. “My boots is so drefful bad, I don’t know as I could walk in them.”

“So’s mine,” said Joyce. “But p’r’aps if the roads is very dry, we might manage.”

And so they chattered, till at last the first rays of winter daylight began to find their way into the little room. The children looked about them—somehow they had a feeling that things could not look quite the same on Christmas morning! But what they did see was something very wonderful. On the floor near the window were two very big brown paper parcels; and Joyce jumping out of bed to see what they were, saw that to each was pinned a card; and on one card was written, “Joyce,” on the other, “Jem.”

“Jem,” she cried, “it must be fairies,” and with trembling fingers they undid the packages.

It is difficult to tell you their delight!

There was a new frock of warm linsey for Joyce, and a suit of corduroy for Jem, boots for both—stockings and socks—two splendid red comforters, one knitted by Ivy and one by Norna; a picture book for each, a bag of oranges, and a beautiful home-made cake.

Never were children so wild with joy; never had there been such a Christmas surprise.

I was so pleased that I could not remain hidden any longer. Out I came, and perching on the window-sill, warbled a Christmas carol in my own way. And I must say children are very quick.

“Dear robin,” said Joyce; “do you know, Jem, I do believe he’s a fairy! I shouldn’t wonder if he’d somehow told the kind little young ladies to come and see us.”

There was a pause. Rafe and Alix waited a moment to make sure that the robin had quite finished; then they looked up. He was not in such a hurry to fly off as the other bird had been.

“Thank you very much, dear robin,” they said. “It is a very pretty story indeed; and then it’s so nice to know it’s quite true.”

The robin looked pleased.

“Yes,” he said, “there’s that to be said for it. It’s a very simple, homely story; but it’s my own experience. But now I think I must bid you good-bye for the present, though there’s no saying but what we may meet again.” He flew off.

“Rafe,” said Alix, “besides all the things mamma does and lets us help in sometimes for the poor people, wouldn’t it be nice if we found some children we could do things for, more our own selves, you know?”

“Yes,” Rafe agreed, “I think it would be.”

Chapter Ten.

The Magic Rose.

The days and weeks and months went on, till it was full summer time again; more than full summer indeed. For it was August, and in a day or two Rafe and Alix were to go to the seaside for several weeks. They were very pleased of course, but still there is always a little sad feeling at “going away,” especially from one’s own home, even though it is only for a short time. They went all round the garden saying good-bye, as well as to the stables and the poultry yard and all the familiar places.

Then a sudden thought struck Alix.

“Rafe,” she said—it was the very evening before they left—“do let’s say good-bye to the old garden too. And perhaps if we stood close to the corner of the wall and called through very loud, perhaps Mrs Caretaker would hear us. It seems so funny that we’ve never seen her again. I think she must be away.”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” Rafe replied.

“I’ve sometimes had a feeling like you, Alix, that she was there all the time.”

“And of course it was she who made the birds tell us their stories,” said Alix, “so we really should be very much obliged to her. Just think what nice games we’ve made out of them; and what nice things we’ve begun to get ready for the poor children next Christmas. I do think, Rafe, we’ve never felt dull since we’ve played so much in the Lady wood garden.”

Rafe quite agreed with her, and they made their way down the lane and through the well-known old gateway. It was the first time they had been in the deserted grounds so late of an evening. For they had had tea long ago, and it was not so very far off bedtime: already the bushes and shrubs began to look shadowy and mysterious in the twilight, and the moon’s profile—for it was about half-way to full—to gleam pearl-like up among the branches.

“We mustn’t stay very long,” said Rafe.

“Nurse won’t mind our being a little later than usual, as she’s busy packing,” said Alix. “And it’s still so hot, indoors at least. Last night I couldn’t get to sleep, though I pushed off everything except one sheet. I was just boiling. And when I told mamma she said it was no use going to bed only to toss about, and that we might as well sit up a little later.”

“I hope it will be cooler at the seaside,” said Rafe.

“It’s pretty sure to be,” Alix replied. “If it was just about as cool as it is here just now. Isn’t it lovely? And that breeze is so refreshing.”

They were standing near the walled-up mound as she spoke, and the wind came with a long sighing sound through the trees. It seemed at first like a sigh, but by degrees it changed into a soft kind of laughter, which did not fade away, but grew, as they listened, more and more distinct. And then it sounded as if coming not from up among the trees overhead, but from somewhere underground. And it was not the wind after all, for by this time everything was perfectly, strangely still. The children looked at each other; they were used to odd things happening in the garden. They just stood still and waited to see what was going to take place.

The laughing ceased, and there came a voice instead, and the voice grew clearer as the hidden door in the wall which they had sought for so often, swung round, and out from the dark passage came the small figure, red cloak, hood, and all, of Mrs Caretaker. She was still laughing just a little, and her laugh was so bright and rippling that it made the children laugh too, though they did not know why.

“And so you are going away, my dears,” said their old friend. How she got up so quickly to where they stood they did not see, but there she was, as alert as possible. And again she laughed.

“If you please, if it’s not rude, we’d like to know what you’re laughing at,” said Alix, not quite sure if she was pleased or not.

“Only a little joke, my dear; only a little joke I was having all to myself. I hear so many funny stories, you see. They all have to tell me them: the wind and the rain often chatter to me, as well as the birds and the bees and all the others that you call living creatures. And the sea, ah! the sea has grand stories to tell sometimes.”

“We’re going to the seaside,” said Rafe.

Mrs Caretaker nodded.

“I know,” she said, “I know most things about my friends. I thought you would come to say good-bye before you left. I’ve been waiting for you. And if there is anything you would like me to take care of for you while you’re away, you have only to tell me.”

“Thank you,” said the children. But Alix did not feel quite pleased yet.

“Mrs Caretaker,” she said, “you shouldn’t speak as if this was the only time we’ve come to see you. We’ve been and been ever so often, but we never could find the door. And we’ve always kept saying how kind you’d been; making the birds tell us stories too.”

“It’s all right, my dear,” said the old woman. “Yes, I heard you on the other side of the wall. But I’m very busy sometimes; too busy for visitors. I’m not busy to-night though, and it’s getting chilly out here. Come inside with me for a while, and tell me about where you’re going to.”

“We mustn’t stay long,” said the children. “It’s later than usual for us to be out, but it’s been so hot all day; we got leave to stay a little longer.”

“I will see you home. Don’t be uneasy,” said Mrs Caretaker. She led the way to the wall—almost without her seeming to touch it, the door opened, and they followed her along the little passage into the kitchen.

The fire was pleasantly low; the curtains were drawn back, and through the open window the moonlight, much clearer and fuller than in the garden outside, fell on a little lake of water, where two or three snow-white swans were floating dreamily. Rafe and Alix almost screamed with surprise, but Mrs Caretaker only smiled.

“You didn’t know what a view I had out of my window,” she said, as she seated herself in her rocking-chair, and drew forward two stools—one on each side for the children. “Yes, it is beautiful with the moon on it; and to-morrow night you will be looking at a still more beautiful sight—the great sea itself.”

“Do you love the sea?” they asked.

“Sometimes,” Mrs Caretaker replied. “You said it told you stories,” said Alix. “Will you tell us one of them? Just for a treat, you know, as we are going away, and we can think of it when we are walking along the shore watching the waves coming in.”

Mrs Caretaker did not speak for a moment.

Then she said—and her voice sounded rather sad—“I can’t tell you one of the stories the sea tells me. They’re not of the laughing kind, and it’s best for you to hear them for yourselves when you are older. But I will tell you a little story, if you like, of some of the folk that live in the sea. Did you ever hear tell of mermaids?”

“Oh yes!” cried the children, eagerly; “often. There are lovely stories about them in some of our fairy books; and when we are at the seaside we do so wish we could see them.”

Mrs Caretaker smiled.

“I can’t promise you that you ever will,” she said; “but you shall have my story. Yes; sit closer, both of you, and rest your heads on my knees.”

“You’re not knitting to-night,” said Alix. “The last time the needles made us hear the story better somehow; it was like as if you took us a long way off, and the story came so clear and distinct.”

“It will be all right, never fear,” said the old woman. And as she spoke, she gently stroked the children’s heads. Then the same strange feeling came over them; they felt as if they were far away; they forgot all about its being nearly bedtime and about going away to-morrow; they just lived in the story which Mrs Caretaker’s clear voice began to tell.

“It is called ‘The Magic Rose,’” said she; “but it is a story of those that live in the sea. Down, deep down below the waves, all is calm and still, and there is the country of the mermen. Strange things have happened before now down there among the sea-folk. Some who have been thought drowned have been cared for there, and lived their lives long after those who had known them up above were past and gone. For the mer-folk are long-lived; what men count age is to them but youth; their days follow each other in a calm that human beings could scarce imagine. They live now in these stirring times as their forbears lived when men and women had their homes in the forests, long before there were houses or towns, or roads, or any of the things which you now think the commonest necessities.

“But the sea-folk have their troubles too, sometimes; and my story has to do with trouble. The Queen—the beautiful Queen of the sea-country—was ill, and the King was in despair. Now I must tell you that the Queen was not quite one of the sea race—so at least it was believed. Her grandmother—or her great-grandmother, maybe—was a maiden of the land, who had fallen into the sea as a little baby, and had been brought back to life and cared for by the mer-folk; and when she grew up, a great lord among them loved her for her beauty and made her his bride. She had no memory of her native land, of course; but still there were strange things about her and her children, and their children again, which told whence they had come.

“And now that the young Queen was so ill, one of these old feelings had awakened.”

“I shall die,” she said. “I shall surely die unless I can smell the scent of a rose—a deep-red rose, such as the land maidens love. It has come to me in my dreams. Though I have never seen one, I know what it must be like, and I feel that life would return—life and strength that are fast fading away—if I could breathe its exquisite fragrance and bury my face among its soft petals.”

They were amazed to hear her speak thus. The great court physicians at first said she was wandering in her mind, and no attention should be paid to her. But she kept on ever the same entreaty; and the King, who loved her devotedly, at last could bear it no longer.

“It all comes of her ancestor having been so foolish as to wed a human bride,” said one of the doctors, feeling in a very bad temper, as they all were.

The sea-doctors are not very wise, I fear, because they have so very little experience. It happens so rarely that any of the mer-folk fall ill. And so, as they had nothing to propose, the most sensible thing to do was to get angry. But the King was not to be so put off.

“Whatever it comes from,” he said, “I am determined that the Queen’s wish shall be complied with if it is in any way possible. What is this thing she is longing for?—what is a rose?”

The doctors did not know; but seeing that the King was so much in earnest they agreed that they would try to find out. And after a great deal of consultation together, and looking up in their learned books, they did find out something. The Queen, meanwhile, soothed by her husband’s promise that all was being done to carry out her entreaty, grew a shade better; at least for some days she did not get any worse, which was always something. And on the fourth day the wise men asked for an audience of the King in order to tell him what they had discovered.

The King awaited them eagerly.

“Well,” he said, “have you found out what the Queen means by a rose? And if so, how is one to be procured?”

Yes; they were able to describe pretty well what a rose was; for of course, down below, they are not without gardens and flowers, though of very different kinds from ours. But a great difficulty remained. Even if any one was daring enough to swim up to the surface and venture on land in search of the flower, and even if it was procured, how could it be brought, alive and fragrant, to the Queen?

“Why not?” asked the King. For he had never been up to the surface of the sea. It is one of the sea-people’s laws that their royal folk must stay down below, so he knew nothing of the land or the things that grow there.

The learned men explained to him that, without air, and exposed to the salt water of the ocean, a flower of the earth must quickly fade and die; and as the King listened, his face grew sadder and sadder. But after a few moments’ silence, one of the doctors spoke again. They were never in a hurry, you see, and they felt that it added dignity to their words to dole them out sparingly.

“It has occurred to us,” he said, “that it might be well to consult the wise woman of the sea—the ancient mermaid who lives in the Anemone Cave. Not that as a rule, the advice of a member of her sex is of much use, but the ancient mermaid has lived long and—”

“Of course! of course!” exclaimed the King, impatiently; “she is the very person. Why did I not think of her before? Why—the story goes that she nursed the Queen’s human ancestress when, as a baby, she came among us.”

“I wish she had stayed away,” muttered the wisest of the wise men, though he spoke too low for the King to hear.

Then the King ordered his chariot and his swiftest steeds—they were dolphins—to be got ready at once, and off he set.

It was rather a long swim to the Anemone Cave. I wish I could give you any idea of the wonderful things the King passed by on his way—the groves of coral and forests of great branching seaweeds of all shapes and colour, the strangely formed creatures whom he scarcely glanced at. For of course it was not wonderful to him, and to-day his mind was so full of his trouble that he would have found it difficult to notice or admire anything.

The wise woman of the sea was at home. The King’s heart beat faster than usual as he was ushered into her presence, not from cowardice, but because he was feeling so very anxious about his dearly-loved wife. And King though he was, he made as low an obeisance before the ancient mermaid as if he had been one of the humblest of his own subjects.

She was very strange to behold. Mermaids, as your stories tell you, are often very beautiful, and possibly this aged lady may have been so in her day, but now she was so very old that she looked like the mummy of a mermaid; her hair was like a thin frosting of hoar on a winter morning; her eyes were so deep down in her head that you could scarcely see them; the scales on her tail had lost all their glitter. Still there was something dignified about her, and she received the King as if quite prepared for his visit. She was not the least surprised. Very wise people, whether on land or in the sea, never are, and she listened to the King’s story as if she knew all about it.

“Yes,” she replied, in a thin croaking voice like a frog’s, “you have done well to come to me. When the human baby, the great-grandmother of the Queen, was confided to my charge, I studied her fate and that of her descendants. The sea-serpent was an admirer of mine in those days, and he was very obliging. He noted the position of the stars when he went up above, and reported them to me. Between us we found out some of the future. I read that a descendant of the stranger should be seized with mortal illness while still young, and that her life should only be saved by the breath of an earth-flower that they call the rose, but that great difficulties would attend the procuring it for her, and that some conditions attach to the matter which I was unable to understand fully. All I know is this, the flower must be sought for by a beautiful and youthful mermaid, but the first efforts will not succeed. Now you know all I have to tell you. Farewell, you have no time to lose.”

And not another word would the wise mermaid say.

The King had to take leave. His dolphins conducted him home again still more quickly than they had brought him, for the words rang in his ears, “You have no time to lose.” Yet he knew not what to do. The conditions he had already been told were difficult enough, for it was not a very easy task to swim to the surface, as, calm though the ocean always is down below in the sea-folks’ country, there is no telling how stormy and furious it may be up above. And for a young and beautiful mermaid to undertake such an adventure would call for great courage. It was quite against the usual customs of the sea-people.

For the old stories and legends we hear about troops of lovely creatures seen floating on the water, combing their hair and singing strange melodies, were only true in the very-long-ago days. Now that mankind has spread and increased so that there are but few solitary places in the world, few shores where only the sea-gull and the wild mew dwell, the daughters of the ocean stay in their own domain, whence it comes that in these modern times many people do not believe in their existence at all.

The King went straight to the Queen’s bower, where she lay surrounded by her ladies. She was sleeping, and though so pale and thin, her face was very sweet and lovely, her golden hair sparkling on the soft cushions of sea moss on which she lay. Even as she was, she was more beautiful than any of the mermaids about her.

Yet some of them were very beautiful. The King’s glance fell especially on two who were noted as the most charming among the Queen’s attendants. Their names were Ila and Orona. A sudden idea struck the King.

“I will cause it to be announced that a great reward shall be given to any young and beautiful mermaid who will undertake the quest of the red rose on which depends the Queen’s recovery,” he thought, and the idea raised his hopes. And as he stooped over the sleeping Queen, she smiled and whispered something as if she were dreaming.

“The gift of love,” were the only words he could distinguish. But he took the smile as a good omen.

The next morning there was great excitement amongst the fair young mermaids. For it was announced that whoever of them should succeed in bringing, blooming and fragrant, a red rose to the suffering Queen, should be rewarded by the gift of a pearl necklace, which was considered one of the most precious of the crown jewels, and that furthermore the fortunate mermaid should take the highest rank of all the sea-ladies next to the Queen herself.

Ila and Orona were both beautiful and courageous, and before the day was many hours older they had offered themselves for the task. The King was delighted, and as Ila was the elder of the two it was decided that she must be the first to try. She received many compliments on her daring, and the King thanked her most warmly. She accepted all that was said to her, but to Orona, who was her chosen confidante, she owned that she would never have dreamt of making the attempt but for her intense wish to possess the necklace, which she had often admired on the young Queen’s fair skin.

“I would do anything to win it,” she said. “There is nothing in the world I admire so much as pearls, but if I gain it, Orona, I promise to lend it to you sometimes.”

“Many thanks,” Orona replied, “but I do not care for jewels as you do. If I have the chance of seeking the rose—that is to say if you fail—my motive will not be to gain the necklace, but to win the position of the highest rank next to the Queen. That I should care far more for.”

Both mermaids, however, kept their ambitions secret from every one else, and calmly accepted the praises showered upon them.

And the very next day Ila started on her upward journey.

Chapter Eleven.

The Magic Rose—continued.

Ila found it trying and toilsome, for she was not accustomed to swimming upwards so long together, and she did not like to lose time by resting on the way. But when at last she reached the surface, her surprise at all she saw there took away her fatigue. It was a lovely summer day, the sunshine was deliciously warm, and as the mermaid lay on some smooth rocks a little way from the shore she could see the green fields, and trees, and houses, and gardens bordering the coast, quite plainly. She could even perceive some people walking along, and she thought their way of moving most extremely awkward and ungraceful.

“Thank goodness I am a mermaid and not a woman,” she thought. “I cannot believe that anything to be found on land is as beautiful as our sea-treasures. How splendid the great pearls in the centre of the necklace would look in this brilliant light! When they are mine I must carry them up here some day for the sake of seeing them glisten on my neck in the sunshine.”

And her thoughts were so full of the jewels that she almost forgot what she had come for. Suddenly the sight of some red blossoms on a tree growing close to the water’s edge reminded her of what she was there to do, and she looked about her wondering how best to set to work. The wise men had described roses to her; they had even found a picture of one in a book about the plants of the land, so she knew very fairly well what it should be like and that it must have a delicious scent. But that was all, and though she saw fields and gardens not far off, she knew not how to get to them. Suddenly glancing in another direction she caught sight of a barge, its white sails gleaming like the wings of a great bird, at anchor some little way from the shore. To and from this barge little boats were coming and going, laden with baskets and cases. Ila swam quietly towards it, taking care to keep almost entirely under water, so that she should not be seen.

When she got quite close to the barge she saw that one of the little boats was approaching it, and this boat was filled with flowers and rowed by but one boy. The little vessel was in fact preparing for a pleasure trip, and the boats were employed in bringing all that could be wanted of decorations and provisions. The boy rowed quite close to the barge, and then throwing a rope on deck from his boat, he himself sprang on board to call some one to help him to unload his flowers.

Now was the mermaid’s chance—she swam up to the boat and stretching out her hand drew from a basket, filled with roses of all shades, the most beautiful red one she could see. She had no doubt of its being a rose, for the perfume had reached her even some little way off. The boy turned round at that moment and gave a cry of terror as he caught sight of a shining white arm and hand taking a flower from the basket of roses, and for long after, a story went about that the spirit of some one shipwrecked off that coast haunted that part of the bay.

But Ila only laughed at the boy’s fright, and swam off as fast as she could, delighted to have succeeded. She hid the rose carefully in the folds of the gauzy robe she wore, and after one breath of its fragrance prepared to hasten home as fast as she could go.

“The pearls are mine,” she thought with exultation, giving no thought to the poor Queen. “I can fancy already that I feel their smooth touch against my skin—so adorned I shall certainly be the most beautiful mermaid that has ever been seen.”

But alas for vain Ila’s hopes!

No sooner had she reached the bottom of the sea than she hastened to the palace, and sought at once for an audience of the King. Eager past words for her return, he hurried out to the hall where she stood.

“I have got it,” she exclaimed, and she slid her hand into the folds of her dress and drew out—a little crumpled rag—a few miserable leaves, sodden and colourless, with no scent or fragrance—the poor wretched ghost of what had once been a magnificent rose!

The King’s face fell. Ila gave a cry of despair.

“I brought it so carefully,” she said.

“Your care was in vain,” replied the King. “It is evident that some condition has not been complied with. How did you get the rose?”

She told him all, and Orona, who had followed her, listened eagerly.

“It may be,” said the King, “that you took it without paying for it. I wish I had thought of that.”

But his hopes revived when he remembered that the “first effort was not to succeed.” And too anxious to give much thought to Ila’s disappointment, he turned to Orona.

“Now,” he said, “it is for you to try. But you must take with you payment.”

“Yes,” said Orona calmly, “I have thought of that. I will select two or three of our most valuable shells, for I have been told that rare shells are greatly esteemed by the land-folk. I am not surprised that Ila has been punished for taking what was not hers without paying for it.”

She looked so calm and confident that the King felt as if she must succeed. It was too late to set off that day; but the next morning Orona started. She was far more business-like than Ila; when she reached the surface, instead of wasting time in dreaming about the pearl necklace, she swam round the bay as near the shore as she dared venture, peering about in all directions. And at last she came to a little creek, which worked its way into the land till it became a small stream, whose banks were bordered by trees. This the mermaid followed for some distance; till, tasting the water, she found it had almost lost its briny flavour altogether. This startled her, for no sea-folk could live many hours in fresh water, and she began to think she must turn back. But just then she saw that a few yards farther on the stream turned suddenly; and swimming still a little way, she discovered that here it entered a beautiful park, through which it wound its way till lost to view.

And close to where Orona now was, stood a pretty cottage, whose garden at the back sloped down to the water, and here were growing in profusion flowers of many kinds; among them roses, red, white, and all shades between. For this was the cottage of the gardener of the great house, and he liked to have choice specimens of the flowers he tended near his own home.

It was easy for the mermaid to choose and gather a beautiful rose, for no one was about, it being still what human beings call very early in the morning. Orona did so, selecting carefully a rose not too fully blown, and wrapping it in some large cool green leaves which she found growing on the bank. And there, just where she had plucked the flower, she laid down two magnificent shells, which she had brought, as payment.

In her calm way, quite as triumphant as her sister mermaid had been, Orona swam back with all possible swiftness. She reached her own country without misadventure, and, smiling confidently, entered the great hall of the palace, where the King was awaiting her with intense eagerness.

“Success!” she exclaimed, as she drew out her leafy parcel. The outside looked green and fresh enough, but, alas! inside there was only the same miserable little bundle of colourless rags as Ila had brought back the day before—nay, of the two, to-day’s withered flower looked even less like a rose than the former one!

Orona clenched her hands in rage; the King’s face sank into utter despair, for the Queen’s state was considered worse this morning.

“Alas, alas!” he cried, as he turned away, “it is hopeless.”

But among those who overheard his words was one who was not satisfied with feeling very sorry for the poor King.

This was a little mermaid named Chryssa. She was younger than Ila and Orona, and she was of far less exalted position; in fact, she was scarcely more than a little servant in the Queen’s household. And probably no one would have spoken of her as beautiful if asked to describe her. But she was beautiful, nevertheless, and wonderfully sweet and loving; and the living being she loved the most in the world was the Queen. Of course, like every one else, Chryssa had heard all about the quest of the rose which was to cure the Queen; and now the thought struck her, could she, unknown to any one, try in her turn to bring the earth-flower fresh and fragrant which alone would have magic power to save her royal mistress’s life? There seemed something lucky in being the third to try, “and, at least,” thought Chryssa, “it would be, so far as I am concerned, ‘the gift of love,’ as the poor Queen keeps murmuring.”