Chapter VI: Part 6

But yet the sleep of fairies is not such but that they awake, readily and easily enough, if it is necessary that they should be stirring. To believe Evelyn, the voice of a man, or even the passing footstep of an animal pushing its way through the brushwood, was always quite enough to arouse the whole elfin world into activity; and, at the first sound of the kind, a score or two of little elfin heads might be seen peering out from their secret hiding-places, eagerly gazing on every side to discover who or what might be the intruder.

No one appeared to disturb this first fairy sleep of our little heroine, and she slumbered calmly on with her new companions. Slowly the sun rose over the forest, tinging the leaves with his golden rays, and warming all creation into life as he lighted up the world with his glorious lamp. Then the sounds in the forest became more and more frequent. From every thicket birds carolled forth their joyous songs; the wood-pigeon softly cooed to her mate in the fir-trees; the jackdaw cackled in the old pollard as he looked out from the hole in which his nest was built; the jay screamed in his harsh, discordant notes, trying to put the blackbirds and thrushes out of tune, and failing signally; the woodpecker began to tap merrily, trying the trees all round till he found one that suited his beak; the squirrels climbed to the top of the highest trees to see what sort of a morning it was, and the still silence of the forest was gradually changed into moving life and bustling sound.

Men went out to their daily toil in field and street, in country and city, busy brains schemed and plotted, and the work of the world went on as it had done the day before, and would do the next day again. And there, beneath the green fern of the forest, the little fairies slept peaceably on, and the mortal child that had donned the fairy form slept on with them, little recking of the busy world, with all its cares and woes, its sin and sorrow, its toilings and strife, which lay beyond and outside the forest, and could not disturb or break that sweet sleep.

But it has probably struck some of my readers that Evelyn's absence must, before this time, have caused some disturbance at her home. So indeed it was. She had gone out very soon after luncheon, and when tea-time came, Mrs. Trimmer, her governess, began to wonder where she was, and why she had not come back. Perhaps you will think that Mrs. Trimmer ought to have begun to wonder rather before, but really I do not think she was much to blame. She had very kindly started off directly after luncheon to carry some sago-pudding to a sick woman in the village; and as Evelyn's mamma had asked her to do this, and knew she had gone, she naturally supposed that Evelyn would be with her mamma, or would at least be somewhere with the latter's knowledge and permission. Moreover, since the young lady was now twelve years old, and both a sensible and trustworthy child, Mrs. Trimmer would in no case have had any fears for her safety, especially in that peaceful and quiet part of the country in which they lived. But when the good lady bustled in just before tea-time, ran up and took off her things, and then hurried down to make the tea, lo and behold there was no Evelyn. So she rang the bell for Betsy, the school-room maid, and asked whether Miss Evelyn was with her mamma; and on the girl coming back to say she was not, Mrs. Trimmer began to get rather uneasy, and presently went to the boudoir and asked for herself. Evelyn's mamma knew nothing more than that the child had gone out to stroll in the shrubberies after luncheon, since which time she had seen nothing of her, and had fancied she was in the school-room.

Beginning to get alarmed, she went to the study in which Evelyn's father was writing his letters for the late post. When he heard what was the matter, he went into the shrubberies and called his daughter's name loudly, but of course with no result. Then he sent a footman down to enquire at the keeper's house by the forest, and another to the stables to order horses to be saddled for himself, the coachman, and the two grooms, and off they set to scour the country in every direction, and make every possible inquiry concerning the lost child.

The poor mother remained at home in terrible anxiety, fearing she knew not what, but dreading the worst, according to the usual custom of mothers under such circumstances.

It was quite ten o'clock before the horsemen returned, but of course they brought no tidings whatever of the missing young lady, who was, about that time, as we know, amusing herself with Sprightly at the house of Farmer Grubbins, and thinking nothing at all of what was going on at home.

The poor father was much distressed, for he was devoted to his little daughter, and the uncertainty about her fate made the affliction still more hard to bear. He could not imagine what had become of her, and therefore knew not what steps to take for her recovery. He would have all the ponds dragged next day, but there were very few in the neighbourhood, and none into which a girl of twelve was likely to have fallen.

At one time there used to be a number of gipsies who frequented that neighbourhood, and the half frantic mother suggested that some of these wild people might have stolen her daughter. Her husband, however, discouraged the idea, since no gipsies had been seen or heard of for some time past; nor would they have been at all likely to steal a girl of Evelyn's age. Had any accident befallen her, or even if the unlikely supposition that she had been stolen, hurt, or killed, had been correct, it seemed almost impossible but that some trace must have been left--some portion of clothing, some signs of a struggle, some suspicious strangers seen about the place. But no: there was absolutely nothing of the kind, and no clue whatever to account for her mysterious departure.

It never once entered her parents' heads that their daughter could have willingly left her home: she was always so bright, happy, and affectionate; so devoted to the place and to the dear ones who made it so pleasant for her. The thought that her absence was voluntary was banished, if it occurred at all to any of the family, before expression was given to it; although its rejection of course made the sorrow still heavier, since if she had been taken away by violence, or lost her life by some accident, the calamity would really be greater than if she had wilfully played the truant.

The only two things left to be done, were attended to next day; namely, the county police were informed of the matter, and advertisements were inserted in the local papers. In both cases the usual results followed. The police arrested two persons who had clearly nothing to do with the matter, and who consequently had to be compensated; and many weeks after the occurrence the same authorities declared that they had known all along that no crime had been committed, and that the child would be restored to her parents in due time. Still less followed from the newspaper advertisements; the papers being but little read in the country districts where Evelyn lived, and having no circulation among the fairies.

So the next day passed over in darkness and sorrow for the suffering parents, who feared that they had lost for ever the child who had been so lately the light and comfort of their home.

There were two beings, however, who felt the loss of Evelyn little less than the father and mother; and these were her brother Philip and his black terrier Pincher.

Philip was only two years older than Evelyn--in fact, not quite so much, and they were great companions whenever he was at home for his holidays. Whenever he had work to do, to settle down to which he felt (as boys sometimes will) disinclined, it was Evelyn who encouraged him to face it boldly, and who helped him in any way she could; and if she was in any trouble about French verbs or German exercises, as will sometimes happen even to the best disposed young ladies, it was to Philip she always flew for sympathy and consolation. And as there was good fellowship between them in their work, so they loved to play together whenever they could, and many a time had Evelyn joined her brother in a game of cricket, or rambled with him in his birds-nesting expeditions through the woods.

Sometimes these rambles had extended far into the forest where the adventures which I have been relating had befallen Evelyn; and during these wanderings she had often talked to her brother upon her favourite subject, and told him strange legends of fairies and goblins, at which he had always laughed heartily.

He had no great belief in such things himself, he used to say. Perhaps his head was too full of Latin or Greek, or perhaps he had not turned his attention sufficiently to fairy-land stories; but anyhow, he listened to his sister without being convinced by what she said, and she had more than once been rather vexed at his want of faith.

Now it so happened that Philip came home for his summer holidays the very day after his sister's disappearance. Great was his consternation, as you may suppose, at finding what had happened, and no less was his sorrow at the loss of his favourite companion.

He arrived in the morning, and was so overcome by the news that he was only able to gulp down two plates full of cold beef, some apple tart and custard, a little bread and cheese, and a couple of glasses of beer, at the family luncheon.

After this he went out on the lawn, and thought deeply over the business; but without being able to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion.

Whilst he stood and thought, Pincher came running up to him, and began to jump upon him with great manifestations of delight. Philip caressed him, and as he did so, remarked to himself half aloud:

"Pincher, old boy, why should not you and I have a ramble in the wood?"

As he spoke, the thought came into his heart that there was someone else besides Pincher with whom he used to ramble, and a sigh broke involuntarily from him as he remembered that he had no other companion now than his faithful dog.

He took a stick in his hand, sauntered over the lawn, through the little gate at the end of the meadow, and into the big wood away among the trees, where he and Evelyn had so often roamed together.

He strolled lazily along, and happened, strangely enough, to take the very same line which his sister had taken the day before.

Presently Pincher started a rabbit, and, according to the invariable practice of terriers, rushed after it as fast as he could; whilst the rabbit, also following the custom of its race, fled before him at the top of its speed, taking the direction straight as a line towards the fairy glade.

Philip gave a shout, and dashed after his dog without hesitation, although he had no expectation either that he would come up with Pincher, or Pincher with the rabbit. But before he had gone many yards, he knew, by unfailing evidence, that the chase had come to an end. Pincher had stopped, probably at the hole into which the rabbit had made its escape, and was no longer yelping as he had continually done during the pursuit, but, as the boy thought most likely, scratching furiously at the hole. Philip pushed his way forward as well as he could, and called to his dog, who presently responded by a bark, the sound of which enabled his master to discover where he was. It was near the roots of a large tree, surrounded by fern and brushwood; and Pincher was running round and round this tree, and then darting off into the fern, and as quickly coming back again, as if something had puzzled him completely and he was anxious to have it set right as soon as possible.

The boy stood still for a moment, looked first one way and then another, but could see nothing. Of course the truth was that the fairies were there, and Pincher knew it, but had no means of letting his master know, for he did not happen to understand English or French, and even in Dog Latin would have made but a poor hand in conversing with human beings. But animals, as is well known, can often see fairies and such creatures when they are invisible to human eye; and I suppose that Pincher very likely had not only discovered the elves, but had been surprised and utterly disconcerted by perceiving that his master's sister, his own little friend and kind mistress, was amongst them.

I do not say for certain that he discovered this; but dogs of the terrier kind, especially when well-bred as Pincher was, are very keen scented, and could probably smell out their master or mistress even if disguised ten times over as a goblin or fairy. So as the dog chanced to have stumbled upon the very spot where the fairies were all sleeping, it is only natural to suppose from his behaviour that he not only saw the little creatures, but recognised Evelyn.

The fairies, for their part, were nearly as much disconcerted as the dog, for they had expected no visitor, and had not intended to wake up and move for two or three hours more at least. They knew that neither dog nor boy could hurt them, of course; but still they were hastily roused from their sleep, and I dare say that their movements, running to and fro to hide themselves wherever they could, considerably added to the confusion of the dog.

Philip of course saw nothing at all, for it is a very unusual circumstance for fairies to allow themselves to be seen by any one who has not implicit faith in their existence and power. So he called Pincher to come away, and would presently have quitted the glade altogether without ever knowing how close he had been to his lost sister. But, for the first and only time in his life, Pincher seemed inclined to disobey his master. He ran round the tree again, whined, sat up on his hind quarters, chattering his teeth and half howling, as if he saw a polecat or stoat or squirrel in the top branches of the old pollard, and waited to be put up the tree so as to have a chance of getting at it.

Philip thought that this must certainly be the case, and, changing his mind about leaving the place, turned round and again approached the tree. As he did so, to his intense astonishment he heard a voice behind him, which certainly, and beyond all doubt, called him by his name. He turned sharply round, and to his great surprise could see no one at all. At the same time a voice again called him from the other side, and with precisely the same result. This went on for several moments. His name seemed to be called at intervals from every side, and wherever he turned, the voice or voices were always behind him. Profoundly puzzled, and rather vexed by this extraordinary incident, the boy was at a loss to know what to do, and at last exclaimed:

"By Jingo, this is a queer thing!"

Hardly had he uttered these words, when a chorus of laughter burst upon his astonished ears; and to his unutterable astonishment he heard a number of voices singing, to a tune he well knew, the following words:

"We don't want to hide; but by Jingo, if we do,
We've got the fern--we've got the trees--
We've got the brambles too."

And again loud laughter ran through the forest, whilst Pincher danced round the old pollard more frantically than ever.

Philip stood rooted to the ground with surprise, when a sound, somewhat different from the rest, attracted his attention; and looking round he perceived a large white owl attentively regarding him with her eyes wide open. As soon as she saw that he was aware of her presence, the owl gravely bowed her head three times, and then began to speak in a voice so exactly like that of a human being, that you would not have known the difference, unless you had actually seen her in her feathers, and been assured by the evidence of your own eyesight that she was a veritable bird. And these were the words that fell upon the ears of her astonished listener:--

"In every glade of forest lone,
Some mystic word of might is known,
Which, once pronounced, to mortals' eyes
Gives sight they have not otherwise;
Gives mortal ears a hearing new
Of things much disbelieved--yet true;
And suffers mortal hand to trace
The circle of the magic space.
Boy! list--thou hast obtained this aid.
"By Jingo"--motto of our glade--
Converts all here to friends from foes,
And bids all secrets to disclose.
Break branch from tree where thou dost stand,
'Twill serve thee for a magic wand;
Around thee then a circle trace
Within this same enchanted place;
Then wish a wish, and speak the word--
'Tis granted ere thy voice be heard;
And thou shall rule like any king
Within the sacred Fairy Ring."

Philip listened with great attention to the observations of the owl, which appeared to him to be exceedingly clear and distinct, although the circumstances under which they were made were singular, and the quarter from which they came unexpected. He felt, however, that he was "in for the thing," as he afterwards expressed it, and that he had better comply with the directions of the worthy bird. He therefore stretched out his hand and broke off a branch from the nearest tree, which happened to be hazel. He then sharpened the end of the branch, and drew with it a circle, in the midst of which he remained standing.

Now, of course, the correct and proper thing for the boy to have done would have been to have immediately pronounced the magic words; wished for his sister back at the same moment; for her then to have appeared and thrown herself into his arms, and for the story to have thus ended in a comfortable, good, old-fashioned way, which would have been eminently satisfactory to all parties concerned. Why should not I make this happen? Well, I really would if I could, but you must remember that all these stories are as true as the histories of "Don Quixote," "Baron Munchausen," "Gulliver's Travels," and all those other histories, upon the veracious nature of which no sensible person has ever entertained a doubt. So you will see at once that I cannot, as a fair and true historian, invent anything, even for the purpose of pleasing my beloved readers, but must go on perforce and relate the facts as they really occurred.

Philip was doubtless very fond of his sister, and if it had been put to him by anyone at the moment that the above course was that which he ought to pursue, I am sure that he would have done so without the slightest hesitation. But as nobody _did_ tell him, and the owl (probably because it was not her business to do so) made no such suggestion, I regret to say that, for the instant, Philip followed another line of thought, and when he again pronounced the mystic words, "By Jingo," he wished--not that his sister might instantly appear, but--that he might understand what was the nature of the strange place in which he seemed to be, and the meaning of all that had occurred. You will see at once that this was rather a different thing from wishing for his sister; and the reason of his not doing so probably was that, in the hurry and surprise of the whole affair, he did not connect it with her disappearance. So, as I say, he wished that he might be able to understand the mysteries of the place.

As soon as ever he had formed this wish, the fairies of course became visible to the boy. They came out on all sides, just as they had come when they had disclosed themselves to Evelyn. They peered from strange corners and holes, they darted quickly from spot to spot, and abandoned altogether the rest and sleep from which the coming of the boy had disturbed them.

Soon, however, their proceedings acquired greater regularity. I suppose it was in consequence of his standing in the magic ring, or perhaps it might have been by the mere virtue of the mystic words which he had pronounced; but for some reason or other the fairies had no power over him as they had had over his sister. More than this, they seemed to have been constrained by some one of those mysterious rules which obtain in Fairy-land to pay him some kind of respect and homage.

They linked hand in hand, and whilst Philip looked on in the greatest astonishment, they formed in a circle round the space in which he stood, and danced merrily round him for at least a couple of minutes. Then they stopped, and whilst all the rest fell back into the fern and brushwood behind, the queen remained, and after a short pause, addressed the boy as follows:--

"Possessor of the magic words
Which here control both fays and birds:
What would'st thou in this glade to-day,
That we can give thee--if we may?"

Now Philip was not much of a hand at rhyming: to tell the truth, he disliked all poetry particularly, from Dr. Watts' hymns up to the Latin verses he had to do at school. For an instant he doubted whether, in spite of this, he was not bound to make some reply in rhyme, as well as he could manage it, having been addressed in this manner by the lady before him. However, on second thoughts, it appeared to him that probably this was needless, as he had accidentally acquired a position which was evidently one of authority. Therefore he replied in the way ordinarily employed among mortals, that is, in prose; and, having now remembered the main object of his expedition into the wood, he thus replied:--

"Madam, I want my sister Evelyn. I cannot tell whether or no you can help me in the matter, but my sister has disappeared and I am looking for her everywhere."

The fairy bowed with grave courtesy when Philip had spoken thus, and then answered him at once,--

"Those who invade our magic bower,
And hold--and speak--the words of power,
Have their first wish--and thou hast prayed
To know the nature of the glade.
If thou had'st wished thy sister free,
It had not been denied to thee;
And she no longer might have been
The subject of the Fairy Queen.
But we small children of the moon
Are bound to grant no second boon;
And if thou would'st regain the lost,
Thou now wilt have to count the cost!
Reseek thine home--for one whole day
No single word to mortal say:
And by no sign or look or sigh
Permit them to discover _why_!
For that same time be only fed
With crystal water and with bread,
Then, at the rising of the moon,
Come here and ask the second boon!"

She spoke; and, even as she ended, her little form appeared to grow fainter and less perceptible to Philip's eyes, and at last faded away altogether. He stood at first amazed, and then wrapped in deep thought. It was evident, from what the fairy had said, that she not only knew what had become of Evelyn, but had the power to restore her.

It seemed a very wonderful thing, but he could not disbelieve the evidence of his own senses, which had assured him of the presence of fairies; and if they could be present, as he had seen and heard them, they might certainly possess power of which he had previously had no idea. There was no doubt in his mind that, if he could only carry out the directions which the Fairy Queen had given, he would stand a very good chance of recovering his sister. It was true that there might be some difficulty in not speaking to anybody for a whole day, especially as no one would understand or guess the reason, and there would also be required a certain amount of self-denial--especially in the case of a schoolboy just come home for the holidays--in restricting himself to the homely diet of bread and water. However, then and there he made up his mind to try his best, and all the more so as he could not but feel that he had been somewhat thoughtless and negligent of Evelyn's interests in not having made her the subject of his first wish.

Pincher now showed as much eagerness to leave the spot as he had previously evinced to keep to the tree. I forgot to mention that he had crept to his master's side within the magic circle just as the fairies appeared. Probably, being a sagacious dog, he knew that if he remained outside it, he might be changed into a rat or a hedgehog, or something unpleasant, and so made sure of his safety from such a fate. Now, however, he seemed actuated by one sole desire, namely, that of leaving the place; and, as his young master was entirely of the same opinion, they made no longer stay.

Philip walked back through the wood the same way that he had come, regained the shrubberies, walked up the lawn and re-entered the house. There he was at once encountered by his mother, who accosted him with affectionate words, and eagerly asked him if he had heard any news of his sister. When the boy for reply merely placed one finger upon his mouth and said nothing, the good lady seemed, and doubtless was, rather astonished.

"My darling boy," she said, "what is the matter? Why don't you speak? Are you hurt? Have you any pain anywhere?" And withal she poured upon him such a torrent of questions that Philip did not know what to do. Still, however, he persevered in his silence, although it was very hard to do so when his mother kissed him and spoke so kindly to him all the while. He could hardly bear it, so broke hastily from her, and ran up to his own room, pushing almost rudely past Mrs. Trimmer, who met him on the stairs and was quite ready for a chat.

When he got to his room he threw himself into a chair, and pondered over all the strange events of that afternoon, which seemed to him beyond belief, only that, as they had actually taken place under his own eyes, he could not help believing them. Whilst thus engaged, the dressing-bell rang, and the servant brought up some warm water and put out his evening clothes.

"What time shall I call you to-morrow morning, master Philip?" asked the man, and was exceedingly surprised to find that the young gentleman made no reply whatever. He repeated the question with the same result, and then, supposing that Philip must have some unknown reason for his conduct, left the room without further remark.

The boy proceeded to dress and, at the proper time, descended to the drawing-room, where his father and mother already were. They were both in a melancholy frame of mind, as may well be supposed, for no tidings had been heard of their daughter, and they could not but fear that she was lost to them for ever. Philip walked stealthily into the room, in the direst perplexity how he should be able to avoid speaking.

"Well, my dear boy," began his mother directly, "have you found your tongue yet?"

The boy made no reply, upon which his father joined in.

"Philip, my boy, why do not you answer your mother?"

Still no word came from Philip, and his father, who was accustomed to be treated with respect and obedience, grew angry at his continued silence.

"Why don't you speak, boy?" he asked again. "Your mother and I are in trouble enough to-day without your adding to it by any childish folly of this kind. I should have thought you would have felt the same as we do."

Still the poor boy spoke not a word, which made his father still more angry.

"Have you got no tongue in your head, sir?" he cried, and laid his hand upon Philip's shoulder somewhat roughly.

But the mother here interposed.

"Don't scold him, James," she said. "Don't be cross with the boy--remember he is the only child we have left now," and she burst into tears.

In soothing her the husband forgot the boy, or perhaps found it more convenient to say nothing further at the moment. They went into dinner, and were astonished to see Philip shake his head when the servants offered him soup, fish, and roast veal (of which he was particularly fond) and content himself with eating his bread and drinking a glass of water. They began to think that their son must be ill; but it was in vain that they questioned him. He only put his finger over his mouth and resolutely declined to speak. Then his father expressed his fear that something or other must have frightened or hurt him in such a manner as to have affected his brain, and, at length, he determined to send for the doctor, who lived about three miles off, in the nearest town. Still Philip remained silent, and the strangeness of the occurrence was so far useful to his parents as that it, in some measure, turned the current of their thoughts from the great sorrow in which they had previously been absorbed.

As soon as the doctor came he performed the usual mysteries of his profession. He looked at Philip's tongue and said it was not unhealthy. He felt his pulse and declared there was no fever, and he finally pronounced that his indisposition--for such he termed it--though Philip was never better in his life, proceeded from some temporary disarrangement of the nervous system, which he had no doubt of being able to treat with success. He prescribed two pills to be taken at night, and a draught (the colour of which was the only pleasant thing about it) in the morning, and left the patient with a promise to return next day. During the whole of his visit, however, not one syllable did he get out of Philip, which, as he prided himself upon his conversational powers, and the successful manner in which he always got on, especially with young people, rather annoyed him.

When Doctor Pillgiver had gone, the parents, somewhat relieved by his report, strove again to persuade their son to resume his natural habits of conversation, for Philip was a boy neither sullen nor shy, but one that generally talked freely, and had plenty to say for himself. As, however, he entirely declined to say anything, his father at last got angry, and, telling him that he feared he was giving way to an obstinacy which, unless conquered, would prove his ruin, sent him upstairs to bed.

Poor Philip was really rejoiced at this, for he was not likely to have any mortal to speak to before morning. But his tender mother, unhappy at the thought that her boy might be ill, and thinking that he might repent of his silence after he had left her and his father, came to his bedside to see him the last thing before she herself retired. This was hard to bear, for to refuse the last kiss and "good-night" to one's mother is difficult indeed. Philip felt this, but he also felt that everything probably depended upon his obeying the conditions of the fairy queen, so the rogue pretended to be asleep, and said nothing, even when the dear mother softly kissed his forehead and invoked a blessing upon her beloved son.

All that night the boy could scarcely sleep for thinking over the extraordinary things that had happened. He tossed uneasily to and fro, then got up and drank some water, then laid down in one particular position, and determined to remain just so until he _did_ get to sleep--then changed his mind and turned quite round to try another position, and altogether managed to have such a restless and uncomfortable night as seldom falls to the share of a boy of his age and good health.

At last morning came, and Thomas, the footman, called him as usual, wondering again that his young master never wished him "good morning," or asked him if it was a fine day, as he almost always did. Philip dressed and came down to prayers and breakfast, according to his father's rule, or otherwise he would have slipped out of the house and kept away all day, until the time of his silence should be past. It was a great trial to him that morning, for his parents were both evidently vexed with him, and could not understand the meaning of his silence.

His father spoke so sharply to him that the tears came into his eyes, but his mother again interceded for him, and as soon as breakfast was over he stole away to take refuge in the garden.

Here again he had difficulties to encounter, for the gardener came to ask him some question about the rolling of the cricket-ground, about which Philip was always very anxious, and it was exceedingly tiresome not to be able to answer him, especially as this was the head gardener, and anyone who has ever had anything to do with such people, knows that they are personages of dignity and position, with whom it is never safe to trifle. So the boy knew that he ran no small chance of having his cricket-ground altogether neglected if he offended Mr. Collyflower, and would not have run the risk on any account, had not the recovery of his sister been of paramount importance.

Next he sauntered into the park, where the gamekeeper presently appeared to take his wishes as to a hawk's nest which he had found, and the eggs of which he thought he could get, if so be that Master Philip would fancy to have them.

It seemed both uncivil and ungrateful to give no answer, but he felt the whole weight of his responsibility and said never a word. But his worst trial was yet to come.

Flora Malcolm, a young lady who lived near, and of whom Philip was particularly fond, rode over to luncheon that day, and wanted him to ride part of the way back with her. She was astonished at his silence and at his diet at luncheon, and rallied him considerably upon both. Yet the boy held his tongue.

Most fortunately for him, his father had again gone off to renew his search after the lost girl, for had he been at luncheon, I think it more than probable that he would have resorted to some of those paternal remedies for filial disobedience which would have rendered poor Philip extremely uncomfortable, even if it had not ended in his disobeying the injunction of the fairy queen, and so losing Evelyn for ever.

Flora's raillery was hard to bear, but after a while she ceased, and being a clever girl, took it into her head that there might be a reason for his silence which she could not understand. For be it observed that there is no more certain sign of cleverness than when a person is able to feel and realise that there may be some things above and beyond his or her comprehension. For the generality of people think they can understand anything and everything, and that what they cannot comprehend is sure to be absurd, unreasonable, and foolish, whereas in all probability these are the epithets which should in reality be applied to themselves.

Flora took a different view, and being goodnatured moreover, left off teasing Philip when she perceived that it was no joke with him, but that there was something serious as well as singular in his proceeding. She had to ride back alone, poor girl, for Philip shook his head when she suggested that he should join her, and of course she could say no more. She did not stay long after luncheon, finding the distress in which the family were plunged, and as soon as she was gone, the boy again betook himself to the garden, and got through the afternoon without a word.

He looked forward with the greatest horror to dinner time--a feeling which had hitherto been as strange to him as to any other schoolboy. So it was now, however, for he knew he should have a terrible ordeal to go through. His father, having returned from another unsuccessful ride, would not only feel angry, but hurt, if his son made no inquiries as to whether any news had been heard of his sister. If again, he saw him for the second night remaining silent and refusing everything to eat and drink save bread and water, his patience would most likely be exhausted, and he might act in a manner the consequences of which might be unpleasant.

Suppose his anger should take the form of sending Philip to his own room immediately after dinner, and thus preventing his being in the forest at the time appointed by the fairy queen!

This was a thought which gave the boy so much uneasiness, that he at last made up his mind that, as the risk was too serious to run, he had better shirk dinner altogether. So when the dressing-bell rang at half-past seven (for his parents always dined at eight), instead of going in to dress, Philip slipped quietly out of the shrubberies, with Pincher by his side, and made the best of his way to the forest. The moon would not rise that night till past nine, and of course he would be missed before that; but he thought they would very likely not send for him, or if they did, no one would be likely to find him.

He marched into the forest full of hope, feeling sure that he had obeyed the fairy's directions in every particular, and that unless she had grossly deceived him, he should soon see his dear sister once more.

On he went, as he thought, exactly in the same direction in which he had gone the day before. The air was mild and pleasant--a gentle breeze rustled in the leaves overhead--the birds had hushed their singing, and Nature seemed to be about taking her rest preparatory to a new day of life and action.

The turf was soft and springy under the boy's feet, the trees cast around him their strange and fantastic shadows, the distant bells fell faintly on his ears, and more faintly still as he went further into the forest, and all seemed so peaceful and rest-bringing that he thought it was no wonder that hermits and such like worthy people should generally choose some woodland recess in which to dwell when they have had enough of the outside world, and want to find rest and peace and happiness in the oblivion of worldly strife which such a solitude would engender.

But when Philip, thinking these thoughts and a great many others, no doubt, besides, had walked some distance, it struck him that he must somehow or other have missed his way, for he seemed to be in quite a different part of the forest from that in which he had met with his yesterday's adventure. It was getting darker and darker, as far as he could see, and he began to be afraid that he might after all miss the place and never find his sister again.

Under these circumstances he did not think it of much use to go wandering on and on, uncertain whether he was going right or wrong, and therefore sat down upon the gigantic roots of a large oak, and there took time to consider what he had better do next. It must now have been getting on for nine o'clock, and presently a soft, tender light began to steal down through the overhanging branches, and illuminate the forest with a silvery tinge. The moon was evidently beginning to assert her dominion over the night, and to tell the darkness that it could not possibly be allowed to have it all its own way.

This, then, was the hour of which the Fairy Queen had spoken, when she told him to come at the rising of the moon and make his second request.

Yes! beyond all doubt this was the hour; but where the Fairy glade was, was quite a different question.

Everything seemed to be quiet and still in the forest, which was going on in its natural way, as if it had never had a fairy in its shades, and did not want one either.

Philip rose to his feet and listened attentively. Nothing was to be heard but the distant hoot of an owl.

The moon grew brighter and brighter, and very beautiful did the trunks of the old trees appear in her silvery light, seeming to assume quaint and curious shapes, as the boy gazed earnestly around him, in the hope of seeing or hearing something which might direct his next proceeding.

For some time he gazed in vain, and then, remembering that he was not forbidden to speak save to a mortal, that Pincher was probably not considered a mortal in the sense in which the word had been used, and that if he was, the command to silence had ceased with the rising of the moon, he addressed his dog in the following words:--

"Pincher, old boy, I wish you would find the glade for me. After making me hold my tongue so long, and eat nothing but bread and water, it would be a thundering shame if the fairy sold me after all!"

Pincher, on being thus accosted, looked up in his master's face, whined gently, wagged his tail, and seemed inclined to run off, as if for a hunt on his own account.

But at that moment the rustling of wings was heard, accompanied by a rumbling sound inside the oak under which Philip had been sitting, and an instant afterwards he was startled by the sudden appearance of a white owl, very similar to that which he had seen and heard in the fairy glade. She bustled out of the hollow of the tree in just such a hurry as you might fancy her to have been in if she had overslept herself and found she should very likely be late for the train, and, as soon as she got well out, she perched upon a branch for a moment, shook her head once or twice as if to be quite satisfied that she was awake, and then pronouncing in a low tone the word "Follow," flew slowly off.

Philip did not hesitate for a moment to obey the bird's directions, as he had found it answer so well to do so before. He followed as fast as he could, though of course, being but a boy, he could not keep up with a bird, and would soon have lost sight of her if the distance had been long. Instead of this, however, it was fortunately short, and before the boy had gone above a hundred yards at the most, he found himself once more at the entrance of the fairy glade.

He knew pretty well what to do this time. He advanced to what appeared to be an eligible spot, pronounced the magic words with great emphasis, and then, breaking off a branch from a neighbouring tree as before, drew the mystic circle round himself and the dog, and then stood quietly waiting to see and hear what would happen next.

He had hardly completed the circle when the same thing happened as on the previous day: the same chorus of voices all broke out in the same tune, only with words slightly different--they sang

"We don't want to drink--but by Jingo if we do,
We've got the wine--we've got the rain--
We've got the ev'ning dew,"

and then came peals of laughter from every side.

As these words rang in his ears, the boy wished as hard as he possibly could that his sister might be suffered to come back with him safe and sound, and no sooner had he formed the wish than there she stood under the old pollard, looking very much as usual, and rubbing her eyes as if she had just been suddenly awakened from a very comfortable sleep, and didn't half like it.

Philip's first impulse was to rush up to her at once, but he fortunately remembered that he was not in an ordinary place or discharging ordinary duties. On the contrary, he had a tremendous responsibility upon his shoulders, and if he should make any mistake it was impossible to foresee the consequences either to his sister or himself. He therefore stood perfectly still and said in clear and distinct tones,--

"Evelyn, I want you."

The child scarcely appeared to see him when bespoke--then she seemed to make an effort to move forward, but stopped as if something prevented her, and the next moment the whole troop of little beings came darting out from every corner of the glade and stood between her and her brother. Then, as they had done on the previous occasion, they joined hands and danced round and round the circle in which Philip stood, although their dance was slower and less merry than before.

This went on for several minutes, and then they stopped, and fell back on all sides into the fern and brushwood, whilst the little queen remained. She stood perfectly still for a full minute, casting a look upon Evelyn in which pleasure and sorrow were curiously blended, and seemingly unwilling to break the silence which prevailed. Then she turned her head round and looked upon Philip, who stood there, full of anxiety as to what would be the upshot of the whole affair, and doubtful whether he ought himself to speak or not. Then she said,--

"Once again, alas! we've heard
Magic sound of mighty word;
Which, tho' we would fain delay,
Elfins dare not disobey.
Since the maid has joined our ranks,
Shared our dance, and played our pranks
(Wonder not at what I tell),
We have learnt to love her well.
Greater grief has none e'er proved
Than to love--and lose the loved;
And if she would still remain,
Gladly we'd the maid detain.
Still--when magic word is said,
Magic word of mystic dread,
'Tis not as the Fairies please,
Save the Maiden's will agrees.
Say, dear child, sweet artless maid,
Dost thou love the woodland shade?
Would'st thou in the forest dwell,
Ever haunt the Fairy dell,
Ever leave thy former self,
And remain a woodland elf?
Wish--and thou hast power to be
Thing as wild, from earth as free,
As the Elf who speaks to thee!
Wish it _not_!--then count the cost--
To the Fairies thou art lost,
Never more in forest wild
Shalt thou act the elfin child;
Never, free from mortal care,
Flit on elf-wings through the air:
Scorning bolt, or bar, or lock,
Till the crowing of the cock
Summon back thy mates and thee
To moss-couches 'neath the tree.
Form thy wish, then, maiden dear,
None shall dare to interfere!"

As the fairy queen spoke, Philip listened with great attention, with some concern, and no little indignation. Her voice was very sweet and pleasant; the picture she drew of the forest life of an elf was by no means disagreeable, and as he gathered from her words that Evelyn had already tasted of its delights, he was apprehensive of the effect which this temptation still to share it might possibly have. He felt, moreover, that as he had honestly fulfilled his part of the bargain, it would be palpably unfair if he got nothing by it, except the knowledge that his sister was a fairy, which would be but a very small consolation to the people at home. So he thought he had better strike in and tell his opinion at once, which he did in the following way:--

"I say!" he cried, "this is not fair. I was to come here to-night and have my second boon--and I have said what it is. It will be no end of a shame if you don't give me back my sister. In fact, you promised it yesterday; and no fellow can stand being made to hold his tongue and eat nothing but bread and water for the best part of a day and a half, and then be sold after all. Come! I say! this won't do at all, you know!"

The fairy listened to him with great politeness, and at once replied to his remarks,--

"I bade thee come by light of moon
If thou would'st crave a second boon.
I bade thee come: and thou art here,
A faithful brother, void of fear;
And thou hast kept conditions two,
Such as had been observed by few.
Yet--ere you blame my words, good youth,
Be moderate, and hear the truth.
When maids or youths o'er fairy lore
Attentively are wont to pore,
Their hearts 'twould mightily surprise
To see how oft our elfin eyes
See, and rejoice to see, them read
Of many a magic Fairy deed.
And when such youth or maiden list
To say that Fairies do exist,
We love them passing well, forsooth,
Because that they believe the truth.
So, when beneath our woodland shade
There wanders tender youth or maid,
On certain spot--at certain hours--
Our might avails to make them ours.
And when, resisting not herself,
A Maiden once becomes an elf,
Dares from her mortal form t' escape,
And roam the world in Elfin shape,
Unless it be by her free will,
She must remain an Elfin still.
'Tis true: the words of power have might
To force us into mortal sight,
And, tho' in elfin garment drest,
A mortal maid must stand confest
To eyes of him who once has known
And said these words--to him alone.
Thy sister, then, thine eyes have seen,
But I, thy sister's Fairy queen,
Have right to counsel and persuade
Her--who is half a woodland maid--
And should she wish it, she must stay
Beneath my loving Fairy sway.
If so--kind youth, oh! ne'er repine,
Or envy this success of mine;
_Her_ fate for ever light and free
From mortal grief, will happy be,
For mortal sin and human woe,
Thenceforward she shall never know!"

As the fairy queen spoke these words, many thoughts passed rapidly through the mind of the boy. He saw at once that the victory was not yet so entirely won as he had supposed, and that people could not change to and fro between mortal and fairy form as quickly as they pleased. Of course he had not known his sister's fate until the fairy queen uttered these rhymes, and even now he was left somewhat in the dark. Besides, as you will recollect, the excellent elfin had not told him the exact truth after all, because she led him distinctly to infer that Evelyn had become one of the elves by her own consent and free will, whereas we know perfectly well that she had no intention of becoming anything of the kind, and that as to "resisting not herself," she had no idea that resistance would do any good, and if she had thought so, would not have known in what way to resist, when the fern leaf was waved over her head, and she began to be sensible of the magic charm which came over her.

It is quite true that she had taken kindly to the life of an elf, but it was certainly hardly fair to let her brother suppose she had become one by choice. This, however, was not a point upon which he was at all troubled. For one instant he doubted whether, if she were really so happy, it would be doing her a real kindness to take her away from the fairies. But it was only for an instant. He felt sure that she must be under some charm which prevented her declaring her own sentiments, and therefore he did not at once put the question to her.