"'What is your name, baby?'""'What is your name, baby?'"
"What is your name, baby?" Frances asked, holding out her hands. "Dennyleebon,"—or so it sounded.
"Do you suppose that is intended for English?" said Mrs. Morrison.
"I don't know. Make him say something else. Baby, can you talk?"
"Tock," repeated the infant, pointing to the mantel.
"Yes," cried Frances, delighted, "it is a clock. You see, mother, he thought I said clock. That is English."
"You don't mean it! But let him alone, Wink, and see what he will do."
The visitor showed plainly that he had a mind of his own. He did not wish to be petted and kissed, but preferred to walk around the room on a tour of investigation. Presently he paused before a table and remarked earnestly, "Book."
"Can't you find a picture-book for him?" asked Mrs. Morrison.
There happened to be an old animal book in the box they were unpacking, and, getting it out, Frances and the baby sat together on the new rug and turned the leaves, the latter never failing to say, "ion," "effunt," "tiger," as the case might be, with unvarying correctness and great enthusiasm.
In the midst of this there came a modest little tap at the door, and when Mrs. Morrison opened it, there stood a girl of about Frances' age. Her red calicodress was very fresh, her cheeks as rosy as the infant's, and her flaxen hair was drawn tightly back and braided in a long tail.
"Is the baby here?" she asked.
"No, no," came in decided tones from the visitor.
This made them all laugh, even the baby himself seeming to think it a good joke.
"Can't he stay for a while? He is good, and we like to have him," said Mrs. Morrison.
The girl hesitated; plainly the baby had no thought of leaving. "The lady who used to have these rooms made a pet of him, and he is always running off up here," she explained.
"I am glad he came, for my daughter and I were feeling lonely. Won't you come in and sit down? Do you live in the house?"
The newcomer accepted Mrs. Morrison'sinvitation rather shyly, looking as if she had a mind to carry the baby off by main force. Her name, she said, was Emma Bond, and she and her two-year-old brother lived in the back part of the house with their mother, who took care of Mr. Clark's rooms. The baby's name was Robert Lee, but he was commonly known as the General, a nickname given him by the Spectacle Man, and evidently well bestowed.
After the picture-book had been examined from beginning to end twice over, the General was, with the aid of some candy and much diplomacy, induced to accompany his sister downstairs, calling "By-by," and kissing his hand with great affability to Frances.
"Aren't they the cleanest looking children you ever saw?" said the latter, coming back from the hall, where she had gone with their guests.
"Aren't they! I think I shall like Emma, she is a nice, sensible, old-fashioned little girl, and the General is great fun. I hope they will come again," replied Mrs. Morrison.
In the course of the next few days they began to feel at home in their new quarters, and they also made the acquaintance of Mrs. Bond, a small woman with a pleasant but firm face, and such an air of energy that no lazy person could exist comfortably in her presence.
She was never known to waste any time. With the assistance of a colored boy,—a theological student,—who came in twice a day and in the time he could spare from his Latin and Greek cleaned for her, she kept Mr. Clark's rooms and the halls in beautiful order. Her children were always as neat as wax, and her busy fingers found time for a little fine sewing occasionally, which, as a girl, she hadlearned in the convent school where she was educated.
Mrs. Bond was trying to train her daughter in the same industrious ways, and one Saturday morning Frances discovered Emma dusting the show-cases in the shop. Stopping to speak to her, she learned that this was her daily task, and that on Saturdays she dusted the study also. It must be very interesting work, Frances thought, and the two children found so much to talk about that Mrs. Bond presently came in search of Emma and reproved her for idling. She did not positively object to play after lessons were learned and other duties attended to, but she conveyed the impression to Frances that in her opinion a really exemplary little girl would care more for her tasks than for amusement.
"I am so sorry, but I have to go," Emma whispered, as her mother left the room.
"Won't your mother let you come to see me some time?" Frances asked.
"I guess so, when I haven't anything to do," answered Emma, who thought Frances the most charming little girl she had ever seen.
It was not long before the Morrisons' apartment blossomed into a charmingly homelike place. Even Mrs. Bond, who on one of her tours of inspection in the wake of Wilson Barnes, the student, had been enticed in for a moment, agreed that the rooms were very fine, though she herself would not care to have so many things to keep clean.
Their sitting room was the greatest achievement. There was the new rug, which really was a beauty, and the couch, with its plump cushions all covered in a marvellous fifteen-cent stuff that looked like a costly Oriental fabric, together with the books and pictures, which had been left packed and ready to be sent to themwhenever they should settle down, and last of all, in the sunniest corner was a beautiful sword fern, a rubber plant, and a jar of ivy.
"Transients can't afford many plants, but a little greenness is essential to happiness," Mrs. Morrison declared.
The cosey kitchen was presided over by Zenobia Jackson, who exactly suited her surroundings, being small and neat and quick, combining in a most satisfactory way the duties of a parlor maid and cook.
She was a friend of Wilson's, to whom Mrs. Morrison had applied. When asked if he knew any one she could get to do the work of their small flat, he replied, "Yes, ma'm; I know a young girl who would suit you, but she is going to school at present."
"If that is the case, she wouldn't suit at all," said Mrs. Morrison.
"Well, she's thinking of leaving school.Her ma she's sick, and her pa's out of work, and their insurance is getting in the rear, so Zenobia 'lows she'll have to get a place."
"Can she cook?" asked Mrs. Morrison.
"Yes, ma'm; her ma's one of the best cooks in town."
"Her mother has taught her, then, I suppose."
"No, ma'm; the best ones ain't taught. It comes by nature, and Zenobia is a naturalist." Wilson spoke with ministerial gravity.
Mrs. Morrison smiled. "I'd like to have her come to see me," she said.
Wilson promised to let her know, and added, "If you take her, Mrs. Morrison, she'll do her best, and angels can't do any better."
The result was that a few days later Zenobia was installed and proved herself worthy of her recommendation.
"She does beautifully," Mrs. Morrison wrote to her husband, "and while I am not in a position to assert that angels couldn't do better, I am inclined to believe it."
"Frances, I wish we knew those girls upstairs. I meet them so often in the hall. One of them—Miss Moore, I think she is—is exceedingly pretty." Mrs. Morrison was washing the glossy leaves of the rubber plant.
"I know them," her daughter replied, as she carefully measured the long bud that was about to open. "The pretty one is Miss Sherwin," she added. "I know, because when Emma and I went up to their room with a package that had been left downstairs by mistake, Miss Moore opened the door, and I heard her say, 'Here is your dress, Lillian.'"
"I can't see how that proves anything. How did you know that the one who opened the door was Miss Moore?"
Frances thought for a moment, "I know now! The package had Miss Sherwin's name on it. Doesn't that prove it?"
"Perhaps it does, Wink, though it seems something of a puzzle," replied her mother. "At any rate, I wish I knew them. I must remember to ask Mr. Clark about them; they look lonely."
"Let's go to see them," Frances suggested.
"They were here before we came; they may not wish to know us."
"I should think they would," Frances exclaimed, so earnestly her mother laughed.
"So should I, Winkie, but we don't know. Perhaps something will happen to make us acquainted."
Something did happen, and it was the General who brought it to pass.
Mrs. Bond often remarked that Emma's head never saved her heels, and it was quite true; for, although she went abouther tasks willingly enough, her thoughts had a way of travelling off into a world of their own. She had long ago discovered this way of escape from the rather dull routine of her daily life, but her mother declared since the Morrisons came she had been worse than ever. And, indeed, the life upstairs in those bright rooms seemed very strange and delightful to Emma, so much so that in thinking about it she would forget the sugar bowl, or the tea-cups when she set the table, and do all sorts of absent-minded things.
One afternoon, soon after Frances and her mother had the conversation about their neighbors overhead, the former went down to see Emma.
She found her in the kitchen that was as usual tidy to the last degree; the General, however, true to the influence of his environment, was busy with a tiny broom and dustpan. Emma sat in the windowreading, and on the stove something simmered and bubbled gently.
"This is a very nice kitchen," Frances remarked, as she walked in.
Emma closed her book. "Do you think so? I don't like kitchens, but your sitting room is beautiful. It reminds me of a house where I go sometimes for mother; oh, such a lovely place!"
"Don't get down; let me sit beside you," Frances begged, and quickly established herself in the other corner of the window-sill.
"Mother doesn't care for pretty things; she says she is thankful if she can be clean," Emma continued, with a sigh.
"I think you are very clean," said the visitor, looking around her; "but tell me about that beautiful house, won't you?"
Emma obediently began an animated description of it. It was just like a palace, she said, with a beautiful garden and conservatory,and rooms and rooms full of lovely things. "Mother sews sometimes for the lady who lives there, and I take the work home. I wonder, Frances, if you couldn't go with me next time."
"Look at the General!" cried Frances, suddenly, jumping down.
All unnoticed by the girls he had contrived to set his broom on fire and was now waving it aloft in great delight. He had no mind to give it up either, and frightened by the excited manner in which they rushed upon him, he clung to it for dear life, filling the house with his shrieks. In the struggle a roller towel caught fire and some damage might have been done, but for the appearance of Miss Moore and Miss Sherwin.
The former seized the baby with a practised hand while her companion unfastened the roller and let the towel fall to the floor, where the fire was easily put out. It wasall over when Mrs. Morrison, who had heard the screams as she was dressing, came hurrying in, followed by Mr. Clark. The General sat quiet in Miss Moore's lap, a finger in his mouth, tears still on his cheek; Emma with a dazed expression was holding on to all that remained of the broom; and Frances danced around excitedly trying to explain how it happened.
When Mrs. Bond walked in, everything quieted down as if by magic. Explanations were needless, her quick eyes took it all in: "Emma wasn't minding what she was about," she said decidedly.
The Spectacle Man chuckled to himself as they all filed out, leaving her restoring order. "The General is too much for Emma," he remarked; "it is odd to see how like his mother that baby is already—as alert and determined in the pursuit of mischief as she is in her more important affairs."
"I have a dozen erratic infants not morethan a year older than the General, at my table in kindergarten, so I know something about it," said Miss Moore.
The excitement had broken the ice, and the Morrisons and their third-floor neighbors went upstairs together chatting sociably. Miss Sherwin, indeed, had not much to say; but her companion made up for her silence, and accepted without hesitation Mrs. Morrison's invitation to come in and make her and Frances a call.
"I have been wanting to come, but Lillian wouldn't let me," she said.
"It is not fair to say that without giving my reason," put in Miss Sherwin, coloring in a way that was most becoming.
"I believe she thought you wouldn't care to know us," said Miss Moore, laughing.
"That was a great mistake," answered Mrs. Morrison. "Frances and I are sociable persons, and besides, we are strangers here."
"So are we, and we came here because Mr. Clark is an old friend of my father's." As she spoke, Miss Moore looked about her with frankly admiring eyes. "I am taking the kindergarten course; and my friend is keeping house and amusing herself, and keeping me from dying of home-sickness."
Mrs. Morrison thought Miss Sherwin, with her rather melancholy dark eyes, looked much more like a subject for home-sickness than her merry companion. In the course of the conversation she discovered that their home was in a Southern town, and that Miss Moore, who was the oldest daughter in a large family, was studying kindergarten in order to support herself. What Miss Sherwin was doing was not so clear. She had no home ties and was free to go where she pleased, and it was evident that her friend looked up to her with deep admiration.
While Mrs. Morrison and Miss Moore were talking, Frances and Miss Sherwin were making friends over their favorite story-books, and before the call was over they all had the pleasant feeling of being old acquaintances; and the acquaintance was not allowed to languish.
The very next evening Frances and Emma in great glee knocked at the door of what Miss Moore called their sky parlor, with an invitation to a candy pulling. It was just the night for a little fun, being Friday and stormy, and the young ladies promptly accepted.
Delicious odors were finding their way into the sitting room when the guests entered, Miss Sherwin looking pretty and pensive in her big apron, Miss Moore as flyaway and merry as usual.
Mrs. Morrison met them at the door and led the way to the kitchen, where the children were watching the kettle that gave forth thepleasant fragrance. "Frances wanted something to do, and as Friday evening is a sort of holiday, I thought perhaps our neighbors would join us in pulling candy," she said.
They made molasses candy first, and while this was being pulled Mrs. Morrison made some chocolate caramels; and even Miss Sherwin was unable to resist the laughing and nonsense that went on, and was presently taking part in it as merrily as anybody.
They were sitting around the fire in a sociable group enjoying the fruits of their labor, when the Spectacle Man knocked at the door. He had to come to see Mrs. Morrison on business, but when Frances invited him in to have some candy he did not decline.
"This looks very pleasant," he said, surveying the company, a piece of chocolate in his hand.
"Sit down, Mr. Clark; I want to ask you something," said Mrs. Morrison. "It isabout the song Frances is always singing,—
"'The bridge is broke—'"
"What is the rest of it?"
"I will tell you all I know, but that isn't much," he replied, crossing his legs and looking into the fire. "I used to like to hear it from my grandfather when I was a child, and I found it interested Mark, my nephew, when he was a little chap. This is the way it goes.
"A man was once taking a long journey on foot. After walking several hours he came to a deep, swift stream over which there had once been a bridge, but now it was not to be seen. On the opposite side of the river a man was chopping wood, and the traveller called to him to know what had become of the bridge. The reply—and this is always sung—was:—
"'The bridge is broke and I have to mend it,Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri do,The bridge is broke and I have to mend it,Fol de rol de ri.'
"'How deep is the river?' the traveller then asked.
"'Throw in a stone, 'twill sink to the bottom,Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri—' etc.
"'How can I get across?' was the next question.
"'The ducks and the geese they all swim over,Fol de rol de ri do—' etc.
"And that is all."
"Doesn't the poor man ever get across?" asked Mrs. Morrison.
"I have told you all I know, madam," the Spectacle Man answered, with a little wave of his hand.
"I think there is a story hidden in it, and that is perhaps why children enjoy it; it is like having a picture to look at." It was Miss Sherwin who spoke.
"That is a bright idea," said Mr. Clark; "but who will find the hidden story for us?"
"I believe Miss Sherwin herself can find it," suggested Mrs. Morrison. "Supposewe give her two weeks to hunt for it, and then have a meeting to hear it."
"Oh, please—" began Miss Sherwin.
"Don't say a word, Lil, you know you can," urged Miss Moore, as her friend tried to make herself heard above the chorus of approval.
"The meeting to be held in my study," added the Spectacle Man.
"But suppose I can't do it," cried Miss Sherwin.
"Father could, if he were here," put in Frances; "he is splendid for stories!"
"Is he the John Chauncey Morrison who writes so charmingly?" asked Miss Sherwin.
"Why, do you know him?" exclaimed Frances.
"No, but I have read his stories."
"I think he writes the nicest ones in the world," said the little girl.
"But we don't expect everybody else to think so, Wink," her mother added, laughing.
One pleasant afternoon Emma came to ask if Frances might go with her to carry home some sewing her mother had finished.
Mrs. Morrison looked a little doubtful, but, before she could speak, Frances exclaimed: "Do please say yes, mother. It is a great lovely house, and I do so want to see it."
"What do you know about it?" asked her mother.
"Emma has told me. May I go? It is such a lovely day."
"I am not sure that it is quite the thing for two little girls to go so far alone."
"But we'll take care of each other, and—it seems to me that what you want to do is never the thing!" Frances said impatiently.
Her mother laughed; "I have known other persons who thought that. Who lives in this wonderful house?" she asked.
"Mrs. Marvin, but she is not at home now; there is no one there but the housekeeper," replied Emma.
"If I let you go you must promise not to stay any longer than is necessary for Emma's errand."
They both agreed eagerly to this, and Emma ran down to get ready.
"You mustn't turn into a little Bohemian, Wink," Mrs. Morrison said, kissing the rosy face under the big hat.
"I don't know what it is, so I guess I couldn't turn into it," laughed Frances, as she followed Emma.
The two children were in a gale of delight over their expedition, and, although they meant to be very dignified, found it impossible to walk more than a few steps without breaking into a skip.
"I wish my hair was like yours," Emma said, looking admiringly at her companion's waving brown locks.
"But braids aren't half so much bother. I have to wear mine this way because daddy likes it; and if you want to, you know, you can put your hair up on kids. That is what Gladys Bowen does; hers doesn't curl one bit."
"Gladys goes to our school, and I don't like her," remarked Emma.
"Why not? Don't you think she is pretty?"
"Yes; but she is so proud of herself. She doesn't like to go with me because my clothes aren't as nice as hers,—I know."
"She gets that from her mother," Frances said sagely. "Whenever I go there Mrs. Bowen asks me who made my dress or something."
"I know I don't have very pretty dresses, but my mother hasn't time," said Emma, rather sorrowfully.
"I think you always look nice, Emma, and I like you better than I do Gladys."
"Oh, Frances! do you really? Then I shan't mind," cried Emma.
She was supremely happy at having Frances for a companion on her walk, and at the prospect of showing her this wonderful house; but when at length they paused before the tall iron gate, she was seized with the fear that it might not seem very grand to one who had seen so much of the world.
Frances' critical eye was pleased, however; "I really think it does look like a palace," she said, with the air of having lived among palaces.
It was a somewhat imposing mansion, with a row of graceful columns across the front, and a broad flight of steps leading to the entrance. It stood in the midst of a beautiful green lawn on which were a few fine old trees and shrubs.
"Just wait till you see the inside," saidEmma, delightedly, as they stood before the stately door; but alas! when it was opened the hall was seen all dismantled; evidently house-cleaning was going on.
After some hesitation the servant showed them into a room which was, like the hall, in disorder. It seemed to be a library, but the furniture was all covered, the floor was bare, and the sun streamed in through uncurtained windows. The most prominent object in the room was a picture which hung over the mantel, and this at once caught Frances' attention.
It was the portrait of a girl apparently about her own age, whose sunny eyes smiled down in the friendliest way. Her brown hair curled loosely over her shoulders; her dress, of some soft, silken brocade of warm, rich colors, was quaintly made and fell almost to her feet; her neck and arms were bare, and her dimpled hands clasped lightly before her. There was a grace andbuoyancy in the pose which was very charming; Frances was enchanted.
"Isn't she lovely! Who is she, do you suppose?" she asked; but Emma could tell her nothing about it, she had never been in this room before.
"I believe she is like you, Frances," she said, looking critically at the picture.
"I am sure I am not half so pretty as that! She makes me think of something— I don't know exactly what," and Frances wrinkled her brow in a puzzled way. She was completely fascinated, and continued to gaze at the portrait all the while Emma was talking to the woman who came to see her about the work, hearing nothing till her own name caught her ear.
"It is some relative of Miss Frances," was what she heard, evidently in reply to a question from Emma.
As soon as they were on the street she inquired who Miss Frances was, and Emmasaid she thought she was Mrs. Marvin, the lady who owned the house. "She is coming home before long, and they are getting ready for her," she added.
"I should like to have that picture," said Frances, with a sigh. "Emma, do you know what a Bohemian is?"
"I know what the 'Bohemian Girl' is; it is music."
"It can't be that, for mother said father wouldn't like it if I turned into one."
As Frances was unbuttoning her shoes that night she suddenly exclaimed, "Why, it is the little girl in the golden doorway!
"What is?" her mother asked.
"I mean that is what the portrait reminded me of. It has just come into my head. Isn't it funny?"
"Almost any portrait of a little girl might suggest it, I should think," said Mrs. Morrison.
"I wish you could see her, mother. Do you think I can go again with Emma sometime? I do want to see her once more."
"I don't know, dear."
"Mother, is it being a Bohemian to want to go?"
Mrs. Morrison laughed. "Not exactly, Wink. It is difficult to explain, but a Bohemian is perhaps a person who habitually does what is not 'the thing.'"
"That must be fun," said Frances.
There was silence for a long time, then she asked, "Mother, aren't you glad a certain person is abroad?"
Mrs. Morrison looked at her in surprise. "What do you mean?" she said.
"Oh, I was just thinking!"
"But what put it into your head to think of a certain person?"
"Well, the girl in the golden doorway always makes me think of him; and youknow, mother, father said he didn't mind leaving us here because he was abroad."
"You have been drawing on your imagination, Wink, you can't have understood father; but now you must go to bed and not talk any more."
An atmosphere of great sociability pervaded the quaint room that the Spectacle Man called his study, when on Friday evening, two weeks after the candy pulling, his expected guests arrived.
He had closed his shop an hour earlier than usual, and spent the time in getting out certain treasures of china and silver, and placing them where they could be seen to the best advantage. When the lamps were lighted, the hearth brushed, and the big Japanese bowl heaped up with apples and grapes, he paused and looked around him with satisfaction.
He was reflecting how pleasant it was to be giving a party, when the hall door opened to let in Peterkin and closed againin what might have seemed a mysterious manner but for the sound of stifled laughter on the outside. On the inside Peterkin stood looking cross-eyed in a vain endeavor to see the frill that adorned his neck.
"So they have dressed you for the occasion, my friend," remarked his master; "it must recall the days when Mark was at home."
A few minutes later Emma and Frances appeared, looking very demure and bringing with them Gladys, who, happening in in the afternoon, had been invited to stay and hear the story. The rest of the party soon followed, and Mr. Clark's face beamed with pleasure as he stepped briskly about getting every one seated. The children chose the sofa at the side of the fireplace, where they sat, three in a row with Frances in the middle, until Miss Moore begged to know if there was not room for her, and of course there was.
"I am afraid you are trying to excite our envy, Mr. Clark," Mrs. Morrison said, touching a little dish of old Wedgwood.
"I have a few odds and ends of things," was his reply; "but most of what you see belongs to my nephew, Mark Osborne. A great-aunt left him her property when she died, this house, and a good deal of what Mark himself disrespectfully calls plunder."
"You have never told us about the Toby jug," put in Frances. "Does that belong to Mark?"
"No, that is my own, and sometime I'll tell you all I know about it; but now we want to hear Miss Sherwin's story. That is the first business of the evening;" and, his guests being seated to his satisfaction, the Spectacle Man crossed his knees and prepared to listen.
"I am not sure that it is at all interesting," said the young lady, as all eyes turned toward her. "Shall I read it or tell it?"
"Tell it, please," cried the children in a chorus.
So she began, at first a little timidly, and with a glance now and then at her paper, but gaining courage as she went on.
"I have called it," she said, "'The Story of the Missing Bridge.'
"Once upon a time a young man set out on a journey. The tender beauty of the springtime was upon the grass and trees, the wheat fields were turning from gold to rose, and the sky was a soft, deep blue.
"He was a sturdy young fellow and carried a light heart, as one could tell from the smile in his eyes and the merry tune he whistled as he strode along. And he had reason to be happy, for on the next day at sunset he was to be married to the fairest girl in all the country round.
"After a time the path he followed left the open fields and entered the cool, dimforest, where all was so still and peaceful that involuntarily he changed his tune to one more grave.
"A truly happy heart is certain to be a kind one, and, eager though he was to reach his journey's end, he paused once and again to lend a helping hand. Now it was to a peddler who was vainly trying to piece together the broken strap that had held his pack, again to restore a young bird to its nest, and then to release a white rabbit which had caught its foot in a trap and was moaning piteously.
"These incidents delayed him somewhat, and it was late in the afternoon when he reached the river several miles beyond which lay his destination. It was a wild and treacherous stream that rushed down from the hills, boiling and bubbling over rocks and between high, precipitous banks. Many years before a strong bridge had been thrown across it at the point wherethe path emerged from the forest, but to-day, to his utter surprise and bewilderment, there was no bridge to be seen. His journey was brought to a sudden stop.
"He looked about him; could he have missed his way? This was impossible, he had travelled it too often. On the other side of the river he saw a man chopping wood, and presently called to him to know what had become of the bridge.
"'The bridge is broke and I have to mend it,Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri do,The bridge is broke and I have to mend it,Fol de rol de ri.'
"This was the man's reply, sung in a merry rollicking tune as he continued his work.
"'How deep is the stream?' asked the traveller.
"'Throw in a stone, 'twill sink to the bottom,Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri do—'
"'How can I get across?'
"'The ducks and the geese they all swim over,Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri do—'
"came across the stream in the same mocking tune.
"Angry and almost in despair, the young farmer sat down beneath a tree to consider what was to be done.
"The secret of all his trouble was this. In an old red stone castle, the turrets of which were just visible above the trees on the other side of the stream, there lived a magician who had long had his eye upon the beautiful maiden who was the young man's promised bride. To win her he appeared as a wealthy middle-aged suitor, ready to lay all his riches at her feet, his real character being carefully concealed; but all his arts had been plied in vain; no gold or gems or promises of future splendor could turn her heart from her young lover. Her parents, however, were inclined to look with favor upon the magician's suit, and their daughter was made most unhappy by their reproaches.
"The last resort of the magician was to insinuate doubts of her lover's faithfulness; and after long and careful scheming, with her father and mother as allies, a promise was wrung from the maiden that, if the bridegroom failed by so much as an hour to appear at the appointed time, she would wed his rival. So sure was she of her lover, so ignorant of the magician's power.
"It now only remained to hinder the coming of the bridegroom. This the magician wished to contrive in such a way that the young farmer should arrive upon the scene just too late, and that he himself might have the exquisite pleasure of witnessing his despair. This was not without its difficulties, for the forest that extended almost to the water's edge was inhabited by fairies who were well disposed toward mortals, and took frequent delight in frustrating the schemes of the evil-minded magician.
"He therefore set himself to work to win their good will, and after establishing friendly relations went to the queen with what seemed an innocent request. An enemy of his was about to pass through the wood, and it was all-important that he should be hindered from crossing the river until after a certain hour. All he asked of the fairies was the promise that they would not reveal the plan by which he meant to accomplish this. The promise was readily given, for what possible harm could come to any one through being detained on the bank of the river for a few hours?
"The fairies often amused themselves by trying the temper of those who passed through the forest, and the peddler, the bird, and the rabbit had all been contrived to test the kindliness of the chance traveller; and by his quick response to these calls for help the young farmer had wontheir favor. So now, as he sat at the foot of the oak tree almost ready to weep in his despair, he heard a tiny voice singing:—
"'The bridge is broke and you'll have to mend it,Fol de rol de ri do, fol de rol de ri do.'
"'If some kind friend would only tell me how!' he exclaimed.
"'Is it then so necessary to your happiness?' asked the voice; and looking all about, he at length discovered a little creature sitting on a toadstool just at his feet. In her hand she held a large leaf which till now had served to hide her from his view.
"Having heard that the wood was the abode of fairies, he was not surprised; and in the hope that they would be able and willing to help him, he told his story. The fairy listened intently, marvelling at the magician's craftiness.
"'And when must you be there?' she asked.
"'Not one minute later than sunset to-morrow. I set out a day sooner than needful because of a mysteriously worded message I received, warning me to make all haste lest I lose my bride,' was the reply.
"'You have an enemy,' said the fairy, 'but we may be able to help you. You must wait the hour of audience, which is on the stroke of midnight;' with this she disappeared.
"The young man, left alone, seemed to hear all about him mocking voices singing:—
"'The ducks and the geese they all swim over—'
"and again and again he went to the water's edge, resolved to attempt to cross on the rocks, but the sight of the wild torrent told him it would be certain death.
"As night came on he at length fell into a troubled sleep with his head against the trunk of the oak tree. He was arousedby soft music and twinkling lights, and beheld before him, ranged in a semicircle, the fairy queen and her attendants. The queen addressed him:—
"'Mortal, we have heard your story from Sadonia, one of our ladies, and, as you have proved yourself kind and true-hearted, we would help you; but we are bound by a sacred vow not to reveal the secret of the bridge until sunset to-morrow.'
"'Ah, then it will be too late!' cried the young man.
"One of the attendant fairies now stepped out and knelt before the queen. It was the one called Sadonia, with whom he had spoken.
"'Your Majesty remembers,' she said, 'that for a certain fault I was condemned to take the form of a white rabbit, and with my foot in a trap wait to be released by some kind traveller. When I was indespair, this mortal freed me, and I ask that I may show my gratitude now by aiding him.'
"'Can this be done without breaking the vow which binds us all?' asked the queen.
"'Your Majesty, I promise neither by word or sign to reveal the secret of the bridge. I shall only ask him to obey me in a single command. The result rests with himself.'
"The queen was silent for a moment, then she said, 'Is this mortal courageous enough, is his love deep enough, to keep him unfaltering in the face of death?'
"'Death met in trying to reach the one I love will be far better than life without her!' cried the young man.
"'Then,' said the queen, 'Sadonia is permitted to use all her powers to aid you, but without revealing by word or sign the secret of the bridge.' She waved her wand, and in a breath lights and fairiesdisappeared and he was left alone. Not alone, for he heard Sadonia singing:—