Then, as soon as his voice returned to him, he confessed that the tree he had removed was really just such an one as the men described, and begged for mercy, because, as he said, he had committed the sin ignorantly, not knowing the mandate of the terrible giant.

But the men bade Thule lead them to his mother's house, and point out his stolen treasure; declaring that they could show no mercy; for, when Loki had made a decree, no man should alter it by one jot or one tittle.

"Oh!" thought the unfortunate boy, wringing his hands, and trembling till the woollen tassel on his cap danced a gallopade, "oh, if the cruel night-elf, who led me into this mischief, would only come forward now, and help me out of it! But, alas, it is of no avail to invoke him; for it is now broad daylight, and the sun would strike him into a stone image in a twinkling."

When Thule, followed by the messengers of Loki, had reached the door of his cottage, he found his gray-haired mother sprinkling the roots of the beautiful alder, and fondling its leaves with innocent pleasure. At sight of the armed men, she started back in affright.

"It is indeed the giant's tree," said the men to Thule. "Pluck it up, and follow us with it to Loki's castle on the mountain."

"To Loki's castle!" shrieked the wretched mother. "Then he must pass a frightful wilderness, be assailed by the frost-giants; and, if there be any breath left in him, Loki will dash it out at a glance! Have mercy on a poor old mother, O good soldiers!"

The unhappy boy touched the tree, and it came out of the ground of its own free will; and, in a trice, stood on its feet, shook out its branches into arms, and in another moment was no longer a tree, but a child, with a beauty as dazzling as sunshine.

"Unfortunate men!" said she, in a voice whose angriest tones were sweeter than the music of an AEolian harp, "unfortunate are you in being the servants of Loki! Go, tell your cruel master that the schemes he has plotted against me and mine have all failed: my enchantment is over forever. Yonder boy," said she, pointing to little Thule, "has saved me. I was, and still remain, an elf of light, as playful and harmless as sunshine. The merciless Loki, enraged at the love I bear the children of men, changed me to a little alder-tree, which is the emblem of girlhood. But he had no power to keep me in that form forever. He was obliged to make a condition, and he made the hardest one that his artful mind could invent: 'Since you love mortals so dearly,' said he, 'no one but a mortal shall free you from your imprisonment. You shall remain a tree till a good child shall touch you,—a child who is generous enough to SHARE HIS LAST LOAF WITH A STRANGER, honest enough to GIVE BACK A REWARD FOR HIS HONESTY, brave enough to SPEAK THE TRUTH WHEN A LIE WOULD HAVE SAVED HIS LIFE. Long shall you wait for such a deliverer!'

"Now how amazed will Loki be when he learns that this little boy has been tempted in all these particulars, yet proves true. My poor soldiers, you may return whence you came, for the alder-tree will never rustle its silver leaves in the mountain-garden of Loki."

Then the men disappeared, not sorry that the good boy had escaped his threatened doom.

Thule, looking at the beautiful elf so lately a tree, could hardly trust his own eyes; and I fancy that many a boy, even at the present day, would have felt rather bewildered under the circumstances.

"Shining child!" said he: "you look vastly like the wonderful little being who led me out of the forest yesterday."

"That may well be," replied the elf of light; "for she is my sister. The brown dwarf who pointed out to you the alder-tree is also an excellent friend of mine, though, strange to say, I have never seen him. We love to aid each other in all possible ways; yet we can never meet, for there is a fatality in my eyes which would strike him dead. He had heard of Thule, the little woodcutter who was called so brave and generous and true. He tried you, you see; and so did my frolicsome sister, who was fairly ablaze with delight when she found you could not be tempted to steal!"

Thule's mother had stood all the while on the threshold, overawed and dumb. Now she came forward, and said,—

"I am prouder to-day than I should be if my son had slain ten men on the battle-field!"

The beautiful elf of light, penetrated with gratitude and admiration, remained Thule's fast friend as long as he lived. She gave the lad and his mother an excellent home, and made them happy all the days of their lives.



THE PRINCESS HILDA.

Princess Hildegarde sat at an open window, looking out upon her garden of flowers. She was very beautiful, with a face as fair and sweet as a rose. Not far off sat, watching her, her young cousin Zora, with a frown on her brow.

There was bitter hatred in Zora's heart because Hildegarde was rich and she was poor; because Hildegarde would, in time, be a queen, and she one of her subjects. Moreover, Hildegarde was so beautiful and good that the fame of her loveliness had spread far and wide; and it was for her beauty that Zora hated her more than for any thing else.

In childhood Zora had been very fair; and the courtiers had petted her, and pronounced her even fairer than the princess; but her beauty had never meant any thing but bright eyes and cherry cheeks: so it could not last. If she had only cherished pure thoughts and kind wishes, she might still have been as lovely as Hilda; but who does not know that evil feelings write themselves on the face?

Jealousy had pulled her mouth down at the corners; deceit had given it a foolish smirk; spite had plowed an ugly frown in her brow; while she had tried so many arts to make her rich brown skin as delicately white as Hilda's, that it was changed to the tint of chrome yellow.

It was said in those days, that Zora was in the power of wicked fairies, who twisted her features into the shape that pleased them best.

At any rate, how the amiable Princess Hilda was to blame for all these deformities it would be hard to say; and she little dreamed of the malice in her cousin's heart.

But, while Hilda was looking out of the window, a noble knight passed that way; and so delighted was he with the rare sweetness of her face, that he forgot himself, and paused a moment to gaze at her. The princess blushed, and let fall the silken curtain; but Zora had seen the knight, and knew he was the royal Prince Reginald. She ground her teeth in rage; for she had determined that the prince should never see her beautiful cousin.

"They shall not meet," said she to herself: "no, not if there are bad fairies enough to prevent it."

But, when the princess looked up, Zora was smiling very sweetly. Who could have dreamed that she was thinking of nothing but how to ruin the peace of her gentle cousin?

Zora could hardly wait for nightfall, so eager was she to do her wicked work. When it was dark, and all was quiet, she stole out of the castle, wearing a black mantle which hid her face.

"Now," thought she, "no one can recognize me, and I will seek the fairy Gerula."

You must know that Gerula was one of the most wicked and hideous sprites that ever existed. She dwelt in a cave far from the abodes of men. It was hidden by huge trees through which the wind never ceased howling. At evening owls hooted overhead, and many creeping things wound their length along the ground. The more toads and snakes she could see about her, the better was she pleased; for fairies, as well as mortals, are attracted by what is akin to themselves.

She was descended from a race called kobolds or goblins; and she loved all the metals which lie under the earth as well as the living things which crawl up out of its bosom.

So acute were her ears, that she heard Zora's steps from a great distance. She brushed back her elf-locks, and gave a low grunt like some wild beast. It pleased her that the Lady Zora should find need of her counsel; but, when Zora had reached the cave, the cunning fairy pretended to be sleeping, and started up in seeming surprise.

"What brings a body here at this time of night?" said she.

"I am Lady Zora. I have come, sweet fairy, to beg a favor. The Princess Hilda is hateful to me: work one of your charms on her, and let me see her face no more."

The old fairy pricked up her ears and said to herself, "Ha! ha! I will have nice sport out o' this!" then said aloud, "Say, what harm has the princess done to my rosebud, my lily, my pride?"

Zora's eyes flashed. "Prince Reginald has seen her; and to see her is to love her. My heart is set on wedding Prince Reginald. Take her out of his way!"

Just then a broad gleam of moonlight fell on the treacherous maiden. It was strange how much she looked like the cruel fairy; and Gerula gazed on her with delight.

"My beautiful viper!" said she, using the sweetest pet-name she could think of, "I will do your bidding. But first say what you will give me if I put Hildegarde out of your way."

Then she chuckled, and rubbed her hands in great glee. Zora started back in alarm.

"I did not know you sold your charms for gold; but I would give you half my fortune if need be, any thing, to be rid of Hilda."

The fairy chuckled again. "Just the damsel for me," thought she.

"I will give you a diamond necklace," said Zora: "it is worth a small kingdom, and was given me by my cousin Hilda. You can surely ask no more?"

"Diamonds!" said the goblin, snapping her fingers. "What think you I care for them? Do I not tire of stooping to pick them up? for they are given me by my cousins, the gnomes, any day. No diamonds for me! Keep them and your gold. I ask but one thing, my dear."

Here she spoke in low hissing tones, more terrible than her loudest croakings.

"Promise me, if you do not marry Prince Reginald, you will let me change you into a charming green snake."

"Alas!" cried Zora, turning pale, "who ever heard of such a cruel request?"

"Cruel, am I?" said the goblin in delight. "Oh, I must seem cruel to one who is so gentle and lovely as Hilda!"

"Alas," cried Zora, "I may fail to win Prince Reginald."

"All the better," chuckled the fairy. "When you become a snake, you and I shall enjoy each other's society, I assure you."

Zora shuddered.

"But it's all one to me," added the goblin, beginning to yawn. "On the whole, I think you may as well go home."

Zora wrung her hands, and groaned.

"Yes," said the gnome: "go back to the castle. Ugh! I would sooner trust one of my winking owls to do a daring deed than you! Fie upon you! Creep back to your bed, and let Hilda marry the prince: a lovely pair they will make. Off with you, for I have to make up my sleep I have lost."

But Zora was thinking.

"I am silly indeed!" she said to herself. "Why do I fear that I shall not win the love of Prince Reginald? Only Hilda stands in my way." Then she said aloud,—

"Lovely being! sweetest of all the race! Great as is my horror, I will consent to your will."

Just then was heard a crackling in the dry leaves.

"Only a snake," said the goblin. Zora trembled.

"Will you promise me that Hilda will never trouble me again?"

"I promise," said the goblin, with one of her merriest laughs, as loud and hoarse as the song of a frog.

Just then a sigh was heard not far from the place where Zora stood. "There is some one here: we are watched," she whispered. But Gerula thought it the howling of the wind; for she was busily musing over the charm she was about to obtain of her cousins, the gnomes, and her eyes and ears were not as sharp as usual.

She took from the ground her crooked staff.

"Hush," said she; "if the sky were to fall on your head, you are not to speak; for now begins the charm."

Then she drew a circle three times on the ground, with her staff, and said in low tones,—

"Hither, ye cousins, that come at my call: The princess is young and fair; Mix me a charm that shall bring her to woe Spin me your vilest snare."

A mist arose, in which Zora could see dim figures, one after another. Zora held her breath. Gerula muttered again in low tones,—

"Hilda is gentle, and dreams of no guile; The little gnomes sit and weep; 'Make her,—if must be,—a snowy wee lamb, In the fold with her father's sheep.'"

Zora clapped her hands in delight. But just then, a faint sound was heard, as of some one talking between the teeth. Then Zora spoke, and the charm was broken. She did not intend to speak; but asked, "What noise was that?" before she thought.

"You have broken the charm," said the fairy. "The soft-hearted gnomes are unwilling to punish Hilda; but I hoped, by my craft, I could force them to keep her a lamb forever; or, at most, to let her grow to a sheep, and die by the knife.

"I will now weave a new charm; but I fear me they will repent; and Hilda will not be got out of the way, after all. Not a word more, I warn you."

So saying, the goblin made another circle three times, on the ground, and again muttered,—

"How long is fair Hilda a snowy wee lamb? The little gnomes cry, 'We fear Till comes a brave lion so tender and true, She lives by his side a year.'"

Zora clapped her hands again. "That is well," said she, "for never was a lion seen who could let a little helpless lamb pass his way without tearing it in pieces."

"True," said the gnome, well pleased, "it has worked well. Hilda will never trouble you again: so creep home softly, and go to your rest: dream of bats and creeping snakes; and to-morrow, at sunrise, ask your cousin to walk with you in the park. Now adieu!"

"Adieu, sweetest and best of fairies!" said Zora, drawing her silken mantle closely about her face. As she left the hideous cave, snakes hissed after her, and a bat flew in her face; but she had sold herself to evil, and walked on without fear of the creatures she so strongly resembled.

Next morning, at the first peep of the sun, she cried, "Awake, dearest Hilda, joy of my life, and walk with me in the park. I have lost my diamond necklace; and last night I dreamed it was lying in the grass."

So Princess Hildegarde opened her eyes, and hastened to follow her cousin; for her heart was quickly moved to any act of kindness.

"What a fine flock of sheep!" cried Hilda, as they were walking in the park. "Such innocent"——

She would have said more, but the words on her tongue were suddenly changed to tender bleatings; and even as Zora stood looking at her, she crouched down on all fours, dwindled in size, was enveloped in white fleece, and became a dumb lamb.

Overwhelmed with horror and surprise, she raised her pleading, tearful eyes to the face of her cousin. But Zora gave a mocking laugh, and said, pointing her finger at her,—

"Who now is the heir of the throne? Will they set the royal crown on a sheep's head, think you? Bravo, sweet creature! You may stand now between me and Prince Reginald as much as you please. It's all my work. I tell you once for all, I hate you, Hildegarde."

Was this Zora's return for her cousin's love? The princess would fain have expressed her grief and amazement.

"Pray don't try to talk, my bonny wee thing! It is not one of your gifts, at present. Your voice has ceased to be musical. I can sing now as well as you. Go to nibbling grass, deary, and a long life to you!"

Then the treacherous Zora turned on her heel, and left her poor cousin to her mute despair.

A search was made far and wide for the missing princess. Forests were hunted, rivers were dragged; but without avail. Deep gloom fell on the people, and the queen nearly died of sorrow. They all believed Hilda dead, all but Zora, who knew too well her cruel fate.

Then Zora was treated like the king's daughter. Wherever she went, there were servants to follow her; yet none loved her, and behind her back they made wry faces, and said she looked like one who was tormented by evil fairies.

But, alas for Zora, nothing more was seen of Prince Reginald. She watched the windows day after day, hoping to see him ride by on his coal-black steed; but he never came. Then she grew crosser than ever, and the frown on her brow ploughed deeper still. She dreamed every night of horrible goblins and slender green snakes.

All the while, poor Hildegarde roamed about the park. The other lambs were content to nip the sweet grass, and frisk in the sun; but the princess remembered something better, for her soul did not sleep.

The king himself, in his walks, was struck with the beauty of the lamb; its fleece was far softer, finer, and whiter than was common. He said to his chief shepherd, "Watch well yonder snow-white lamb, and give it particular care."

For there was something in its soft dark eyes, as they were raised to his face, which stirred the king's heart, though he knew not why.

One day the city was thrown into a great tumult. A lion had been seen in the thicket which bordered the park. The huntsmen, hearing of it, stole out privately to waylay him in a snare. He was caught alive by the king's favorite huntsman. It was agreed that such a fine lion had never been seen before; and the king ordered a strong iron cage for the beast, and made his favorite huntsman his keeper.

Now the cage was in the midst of the park; and such was the terror of the sheep and deer, that none of them went near it.

"I will go," thought poor Hildegarde; "let the lion tear me in pieces. Sooner would I perish, than live on, a poor wee lamb all my days."

So she went up to the cage, though with a faint heart; but the lion put his paw out of the bars, and stroked her face, as if he would bid her welcome. The keeper reported the fact with great surprise.

It may be that the beautiful brown eyes of the lamb tamed the fierce spirit of the lion; for they were human eyes, full of Hildegarde's own soul. Be that as it may, the lamb went every day to the cage, till the lion learned to watch for her, and gave a low growl of joy when he saw her coming. At last the keeper ventured to drop her carefully into the cage. The lion was beside himself with joy; and, after that, the lamb was placed in the cage every morning, and only taken out at night.

Then the king invited all the noblemen into his park, to see the strange sight of a lion and a lamb living together in peace. And all the while Hildegarde loved her shaggy companion, and asked herself every day how it could be that a lion should have such speaking eyes and such a tender heart. But she almost believed that he was a human being, shut up, like herself, in a cruel disguise.

At last, when a whole year had gone by, the time came for Hilda to be disenchanted; for the good little gnomes had declared that if she could live for a twelvemonth in peace with a lion, the charm would then be at an end.

Hilda did not know this; but awoke at sunrise, and, going to drink, saw the image of her old self in the fountain; and faint voices repeated in chorus these lines:—

"Thrice welcome, sweet Hilda! the little gnomes say At sunrise their charms shall end; So go to the lion, and open the cage; The prince is your own true friend."

This was so sudden and unexpected that the happy Hilda could hardly believe her senses. She gazed at her jewelled fingers; she touched her velvet robe. "It is Hildegarde," said she dreamily; "where has she stayed so long?"

She went to the cage; and, finding the key hanging on the outside, would fain have freed the poor lion, but thought of the terror it would cause the sheep and deer, and dared not do it.

She put her soft white arms within the bars, saying,—

"You have been a true friend to the little white lamb. She has found her tongue again, and can say so. Kind old lion, gentle prisoner, Hildegarde will not forget you."

The noble beast looked at the disenchanted princess, and the next instant was changed to his true form; and, in place of a tawny lion, it was the brave Prince Reginald. Hilda blushed with joyful surprise, and would have taken down the key to unlock the cage, but the prince said,—

"Loveliest Hildegarde, will you be my bride? Speak before you unlock the cage; for, if you say nay, Reginald must again become a dumb beast, and, as he has been for a year, so will he be for the rest of his days."

Hildegarde cast down her eyes, and answered, "If so be the lion and the lamb could live side by side for a year, may not Reginald and Hilda dwell together in peace?"

"Then," said the joyful Prince Reginald, "I pray thee unlock the cage."

Now, as they walked together in the park, the prince told Hildegarde that he had loved her for a twelvemonth and a day.

He described Zora's visit to the cruel goblin. He said that he himself had overheard the two talking together, had ground his teeth, and sighed. Then the gnomes, seeing his grief, had come asking him if he would be changed for a year, and maybe for life, into a lion; and for Hildegarde's sake he had gladly consented.

Hearing all these things, the grateful princess wept, and said,—

"Now I know that Prince Reginald is my own true friend."

The prince led Hilda to the palace, and presented her to the king and queen. Great was the wonder, and loud the rejoicing throughout the land.

The treacherous Zora was seen no more, but was changed into a slender green snake; and the king said she deserved her fate; "for, mark you," cried he, "there is no crime worse than to play false to those whom we pretend to love."

But Prince Reginald and Hildegarde were married, and lived in peace all the rest of their lives.



GOLDILOCKS.

"A king lived long ago, In the morning of the world,"

who had two children, Despard and Goldilocks. They were twin brother and sister, but no more alike than a queen-lily and a nightshade, a raven and a dove.

Goldilocks was a bright young damsel, with hair like fine threads of gold, and a face so radiant that people questioned if the blood in her veins might not be liquid sunshine. Her eyes were as soft as violets; and her laugh was like the music of a spring robin.

Despard, on the other hand, was as melancholy as an owl. His raven hair cast gloomy shadows, and his mournful eyes pierced you with a sudden sorrow. He was too low-spirited to chase butterflies, weave daisy-chains, and dance with Goldilocks among the flowers. He liked better to play at a mimic funeral, and deck himself as chief mourner, in a friar's robe with sable plumes. He could never understand why laughing Goldilocks should object to making believe die, and be buried in the large jewel-coffer, which stood for a tomb.

He always said that, if he lived to be a man, he should grow all the more wretched, and creep over the earth like a great black cloud. When Despard spoke so hopelessly, Goldilocks paused in her song or her play, and stealthily brushed a rare tear from her eye. She was afraid her brother's words might prove true.

These children lived in what is called the Golden Age, when the rivers flowed with milk and wine, and yellow honey dripped from oak-trees. Their childhood would probably have lasted forever; but the Silver Age came on, and every thing was changed. Then, it was sometimes too warm, and sometimes too cold. People began to live in caves, and weave houses of twigs. The king, their father, died, and went, so it was said, to the "Isles of the Blessed."

The children were shipwrecked upon a foreign shore, all because of a sudden swell of the ocean. Here they were desolate and homesick. The strange people among whom they had fallen did not know they were the children of a king. No one was left to care for them but their old nurse, named Sibyl.

This aged woman was growing lame, and her hair was gray; yet she loved the twins, and would spin all the day long, to buy black bread for them, and now and then a little choice fruit.

"Alas," she sighed, "alas, for the Golden Age, when the forests had never been robbed, when oxen were not called to draw the plough, and the beautiful earth laughed, and tossed up fruit and flowers without waiting to be asked!"

The frocks that Sibyl made for Goldilocks were coarse; but on fair spring days she took from the chest a delicate, rosy robe, embroidered with gold, and smiled to see how it adorned the child.

But as for Despard, she had no hope that he would ever look well in any thing. She would part Goldilocks' wonderful hair, and say,—

"Old Sibyl knows who is her love; she knows who would be glad to give her pomegranates and grapes, when she is too old to spin, and too weak to sit up."

Little Goldilocks would laughingly reply,—

"And I know, too: when I am a woman I shall weave a net of my hair, and fish up all the gold that has sunk to the beds of the rivers. Then I know who will have a set of hard gold teeth, and a silver rocking-chair."

"Thou art lovely enough to be a goddess, little Goldilocks. And what wilt thou do with the rest of the gold?"

"Oh, Despard shall have all he can carry; for Despard is good, let people say what they may. And I will have a crown made for him, with diamonds set in it as plenty as plums in a pudding."

"Listen, my children," said the old Sibyl, sadly: "there will be no one to give me grapes and pomegranates when I am faint and weak. I can read by the stars that you are soon to go on a pilgrimage, and leave your old nurse behind. You may well weep, my good little boy: there is to be no rest for your feet till you have travelled over the whole world, from north to south."

Despard groaned aloud; but Goldilocks clapped her hands and laughed. "Oh, let us start to-night," she cried.

"When the sun-god has made twelve journeys in his winged boat," sighed Sibyl, "and when the young moon has arisen out of the ocean, then you may go."

And, at the appointed time, the faithful nurse, with many tears, prepared her foster-children for their long journey. She took from a worm-eaten coffer some family heirlooms, which had been lying since the days of the Golden Age, enveloped in rose-leaves and gold paper.

She placed in the hand of Despard a dagger with a jewelled hilt, a quiver of poisoned arrows, and a glittering sword, with a blade sharper than a serpent's tooth.

But to Goldilocks she gave a flask of smooth, fragrant oil, a vase of crystal-bright water, and a fan made of the feathers of the beautiful bird of Paradise.

Kissing the little pilgrims, she said,—

"These gifts have been saved for you these many years: use them as an inward voice shall whisper you: I give you my blessing. The gods attend you! Farewell."

The children at first walked on sorrowfully; but soon the gay spirits of Goldilocks rebounded, and she waltzed hither and thither, like a morsel of thistle-down.

"See, brother," said she, "we almost fly! What a glorious thing it is to go on a pilgrimage! I am glad the beautiful Silver Age has come, and Jupiter has given us leave to take a peep at the world!"

"All very well for you to say," moaned Despard; "you flit about as if you had wings on your feet; while, as for me, it is true I move with equal speed, but so painfully that I wonder my footprints are not stained with blood."

Soon the children observed, not far off, a party of youths rowing on the bosom of a lake. They sat in a rocking, unsteady little bark, but were in gay spirits, blowing bubbles, watching idle clouds, and throwing up empty shouts to be caught up and echoed by the hills.

"I wish we had not seen these happy people," sighed Despard; "for, if you can believe me, sister, I really feel as if I must pelt them with my arrows."

So saying, little Despard began to fire his poisonous darts at random.

"Why, brother," cried Goldilocks, in alarm, "are you possessed by the furies? Take care how you aim, or you will surely do mischief."

Even as she spoke, several of the gay youths dropped to the bottom of the boat, apparently wounded. Their companions pushed for the shore; and Goldilocks almost flew, to pour into the red wounds her brother had made the smooth healing oil from her flask.

"Poor dears," said she, pitying their pain, "I have done my best; and, see! these ugly gashes are almost healed. I cannot promise you, though, that they will not leave scars."

The youths thanked the sweet girl, and assured her it was almost a pleasure to be wounded, if one might be nursed by such gentle hands as hers. But as for Despard, it was hardly strange that they should look upon the poor boy as a wicked little highwayman; or, at best, a saucy, careless fellow.

Some of the older youths, however, patted him on the shoulder, and said, "For your sweet sister's sake we can even endure your pranks."

"Do not despise me," said the boy, sadly; "for as I am moved, so must I do. Not for the whole world would I fire a poisonous arrow, if the mighty Jove did not compel me."

As they walked on, Despard, against his will, flung into the air a quantity of winged torments, which he found stowed away in his wallet, such as gnats, wasps, and flies.

"There, now," said sweet Goldilocks, ready to weep, "why could you not look before you, and see those pretty children playing yonder in that fragrant meadow?"

"I saw them," said Despard; "but what good did that do?"

"O brother, I wish the Golden Age would come again, and then you would cease scattering mischief and trouble."

The little ones, suddenly stopped in their play by the army of insects, ran hither and thither over the meadow, screaming with pain. But Goldilocks appeared in the midst of them, with her shining hair, violet eyes, and laugh like the music of a spring robin.

"Come to me," said she; "let me kiss away the stings."

In a very short space the children were soothed, and had forgotten their trouble. Then they threw their little arms about Goldilocks' neck, and begged her to stay and play with them.

"Sweet children, it is my mission,—so the stars say,—to travel all over this world, from north to south. But, for all that, I will frolic with you till the sun sets."

"Will the sad boy come too?" asked the children.

Goldilocks shook her bright curls. "He is planting a garden," said she; "no need to ask him; he hears nothing while he is at play, and his games are as solemn as midnight."

The children made believe that the beautiful Goldilocks, in her rose-colored dress, with her beaming hair and flying feet, was a great butterfly, which they were trying to catch. Now here, now there, the glowing butterfly flitted from flower to flower, leading her followers a merry chase. Every child thought to seize and hold her, for a kiss. She laughed; and the breezes danced with her hair, like—

"Zephyr with Aurora playing, As he met her once a-Maying."

But before any one had kissed or even touched her, she had disappeared, leaving the children gazing into the air, and seeking their late companion with tearful eyes.

Goldilocks had only gone back to Despard, who was still planting flower-seeds.

"What a miserable game," said Goldilocks; "it is worse than playing funeral! Who thought you could make flowers grow? Our old nurse said it was only Demeter, the goddess, who could do that. Here, now, you have called up a bristling crop of thistles and brambles? On my word, Despard, it is a pity!"

"Well, well, Goldilocks, see what you can make of them. I am doomed to work, though I don't wish it; and my work is always disagreeable, though I can't tell why!"

Goldilocks knelt, and blew on the prickly plants with her sweet breath. By the nodding of the next breeze, they were changed to roses, violets, and hare-bells.

"It is pleasant to see any thing smile, even a flower," said Goldilocks, laughing as she spoke.

"I think," replied Despard, "that this is a strange pilgrimage. I believe our very thoughts are alive. I wish I could stop thinking."

By and by they came to a rude house,—as fine a one, though, as people in the Silver Age had yet learned how to build. Despard paused, and knocked gently. "Why linger here?" whispered his sister.

"I know not," sighed the boy, "but so must I do."

"How now, little ones? you startled me so!" cried a woman, opening the door by the width of a crack.

"Let us come in," said Despard, sorrowfully; "we are two little wanderers; and our hairs are wet with night-dews."

"Come in, then, little ones, and welcome; but never, at any one's door, knock so loud again," added the woman, pressing her hand against her heart.

"I only tapped with the ends of my fingers," said the boy.

"Ah," said the woman, "it was louder to me than thunder." Then, after she had set before them a supper of bread and milk, she rocked her baby, and sang to it a sweet cradle-song about mother Juno and high Olympus.

The children lay down on beds of rushes; and Goldilocks, soothed by the lullaby, fell asleep; but soon awoke, and saw her brother leaning, on tiptoe, over the osier basket. The baby's face looked, in the moonlight, white and pinched; and its sick hands were pressed together like two withered rose-leaves.

"Let me kiss him," whispered Goldilocks smiling. But bitter tears rolled down Despard's cheeks. Drawing his little sword from its sheath, he pricked the baby's heart till one red drop, the life-drop, stained the steel. The sick baby ceased to breathe.

"O Despard, what have you done?" cried Goldilocks, seizing his arm.

"I know not," said the boy; "but as my heart moves me, so must I do."

Hearing voices, the mother awoke, and, as her habit was, turned at once to the cradle. The baby lay there beautiful and still; the pinched look gone, and its furrowed brow smoothed into a baby's smile. The mother wept bitterly.

"Ah, little stranger," said she, turning to Despard, "I knew you when I let you in. Why did I open the door for you?"

"Poor mother," said the boy sorrowfully, "if you had not opened the door, I must have come in by the window."

But Goldilocks threw her soft arms about the woman's neck, and comforted her till it was morning, and the "gilded car of day" had risen from the ocean. The tears on her cheeks she dried with her fan, made of magical feathers.

When the children set out again on their journey, the woman gave Goldilocks a loving kiss, and then embraced Despard, saying,—

"For the sake of your sweet sister, I love even you."

"Poor little brother," said Goldilocks when they had gone farther on their journey, "you are as good as I; but how is it? you make people weep, while I must go with you to dry the tears you call forth."

"I am a black cloud," groaned Despard, "you a sunbeam."

"But I like to have a cloud to shine on," said loving little Goldilocks.

Footsore and weary, the little pilgrims travelled on; and, when they had gone from north to south, and back again, the Sibyl met them with tender kisses; and, when they were refreshed, bade them go forth again.

"For," said she, "this world is always new, my dears. The people who are born to-day were not here yesterday; and every mortal must see the faces of my foster-children."

It was now the Brazen Age, and Despard and Goldilocks had grown to be a youth and maiden; but still they travelled on. The Iron Age came; and Despard's raven hair was frosted; but Goldilocks' curls never faded. Let her live as long as live she may, she can never grow old.

Their pilgrimage is not over yet; nor will it be while the earth revolves about the sun. The brother and sister come to every house; they knock at every door.

To all the children who open their eyes upon the light, come Despard and Goldilocks, the bitter and the sweet of life, the twin angels of Happiness and Sorrow.

THE END.



Transcriber's Note

Archaic and variable spelling is preserved as printed. Punctuation errors have been repaired. Hyphenation has been made consistent. Typographic errors (omitted letters) have been repaired.

On page 61, seen has been amended to then—"One sees, now and then, stupid human beings, ..."

On page 158, a reference to Hilda has been amended to Zora—"He described Zora's visit to the cruel goblin."