saidtheman,andhegazedatthedoor,sothatblackspotscamebeforehiseyesanduponthefloor;hedidnotknowifitwasblood,ormourningcrapefromthedarkheavydays.

andashesatthus,thethoughtcameuponhimwhetherthestorymightnothavehiddenitself,liketheprincessintheoldtale.andhewouldnowgoinsearchofit;ifhefoundit,itwouldbeaminnewsplendor,lovelierthanever.

"whoknows?perhapsithashiddenitselfinthestrawthatbalancesonthemarginofthewell.carefully,carefully!perhapsitlieshiddeninacertainflower-thatflowerinoneofthegreatbooksonthebook-shelf."

andthemanwentandopenedoneofthenewestbooks,togaininformationonthispoint;buttherewasnoflowertoberehereadaboutholgerdanske;andthemanreadthatthetalehadbeeninventedandputtogetherbyamonkinfrance,thatitwasaromance,"translatedintodanishandprintedinthatlanguage;"thatholgerdanskehadneverreallylived,andconsequentlycouldnevercomeagain,aswehavesung,andhavebeensogladtobelieve.andwilliamtellwastreatedjustlikeholgerdanske.thesewereallonlymyths-nothingonwhichwecoulddepend;andyetitisallwritteninaverylearnedbook.

"well,ishallbelievewhatibelieve!"saidtheman."theregrowsnoplantainwherenofoothastrod."

andheclosedthebookandputitbackinitsplace,andwenttothefreshflowersatthewindow.perhapsthestorymighthavehiddenitselfintheredtulips,withthegoldenyellowedges,orinthefreshrose,orinthebeamingcamellia.thesunshinelayamongtheflowers,butnostory.

theflowerswhichhadbeenhereinthedarktroubloustimehadbeenmuchmorebeautiful;buttheyhadbeencutoff,oneafteranother,tobewovenintowreathsandplacedincoffins,andtheflaghadwavedoverthem!perhapsthestoryhadbeenburiedwiththeflowers;butthentheflowerswouldhaveknownofit,andthecoffinwouldhaveheardit,andeverylittlebladeofgrassthatshotforthwouldhavetoldofit.thestoryneverdies.

perhapsithasbeenhereonce,andhasknocked;butwhohadeyesorearsforitinthosetimes?peoplelookeddarkly,gloomily,andalmostangrilyatthesunshineofspring,atthetwitteringbirds,andallthecheerfulgreen;thetonguecouldnotevenbeartheoldmerry,popularsongs,andtheywerelaidinthecoffinwithsomuchthatourhearthelddear.thestorymayhaveknockedwithoutobtainingahearing;therewasnonetobiditwelcome,andsoitmayhavegoneaway.

"iwillgoforthandseekit.outinthecountry!outinthewood!andontheopenseabeach!"

outinthecountryliesanoldmanorhouse,withredwalls,pointedgables,andaredflagthatfloatsonthetower.thenightingalesingsamongthefinely-fringedbeech-leaves,lookingatthebloomingappletreesofthegarden,andthinkingthattheybearroses.herethebeesaremightilybusyinthesummer-time,andhoverroundtheirqueenwiththeirhummingsong.theautumnhasmuchtotellofthewildchase,oftheleavesofthetrees,andoftheracesofmenthatarepassingawaytogether.thewildswanssingatchristmas-timeontheopenwater,whileintheoldhalltheguestsbythefiresidegladlylistentosongsandtooldlegends.

downintotheoldpartofthegarden,wherethegreatavenueofwildchestnuttreesluresthewanderertotreaditsshades,wentthemanwhowasinsearchofthestory;forherethewindhadoncemurmuredsomethingtohimof"waldemardaaandhisdaughters."thedryadinthetree,whowasthestory-motherherself,hadheretoldhimthe"dreamoftheoldoaktree."here,inthetimeoftheancestralmother,hadstoodclippedhedges,butnowonlyfernsandstingingnettlesgrewthere,hidingthescatteredfragmentsofoldsculpturedfigures;themossisgrowingintheireyes,buttheycanseeaswellasever,whichwasmorethanthemancoulddowhowasinsearchofthestory,forhecouldnotfindthat.wherecoulditbe?