"Auntie!" repeated Olive, in astonishment; "she is not _your_ auntie!"
"On no account," said the dwarf, in the same calm tone, but without seeming to take in that Olive meant to reprove him.
"It"s no use trying to make them understand," said Olive to herself.
"Not the least," said the dwarf; at which Olive felt so provoked that she could have stamped her feet with irritation. But as _thinking_ crossly seemed in this country to be quite as bad as _speaking_ crossly, she had to try to swallow down her vexation as well as she could.
"I was going to say," she went on quietly, "that to my taste the village would be prettier if there was a little variety. Not all the houses just the same, you know. And all of _you_ are so like each other, and all your little brown wives too. Are there no _children_ dwarfs?"
"Doubtless. Any quant.i.ty," was the answer.
"Then where are they all?" said Olive. "Are they all asleep?" She put the last question rather sarcastically, but the sarcasm seemed to be lost on the little man.
"Yes, all asleep," he replied; "all asleep, and dreaming. Children are very fond of dreaming," he went on, looking up at Olive with such a queer expression, and such a queer tone in his voice too, that Olive got a queer feeling herself, as if he meant more than his words actually said. Could he mean to hint that _she_ was dreaming? But a remark from the dwarf distracted her thoughts.
"Supper is ready," he said. "They are all waiting." And turning round, Olive saw before her a cottage a good deal larger than the others; in fact, it was almost high enough for her, with considerable stooping, to get in at the door. And through the windows she saw a long table neatly covered with a bright blue tablecloth, and spread with numbers of tiny plates, and beside each plate a knife and fork and a little blue gla.s.s cup. Two great dishes stood on the table, one at each end. Steam was rising from each, and a delicious smell came out through the open windows.
"I did not know I was so hungry," thought Olive; "but I do _hope_ it isn"t fir-cones."
"Yes," said the dwarf; "they"ll be better done this time."
Then he gave a sort of sharp, sudden cry or whistle, and immediately all the dwarfs of the village appeared as if by magic, and began hurrying into the house, but as soon as they were in the middle of the pa.s.sage they fell back at each side, leaving a clear s.p.a.ce in the middle.
"For you," said the first dwarf, bowing politely.
"Do you always have supper here altogether like that?" said Olive. "How funny!"
"Not at all," said the dwarf; "it"s a table d"hote. Be so good as to take your place."
Olive bent her head cautiously in preparation for pa.s.sing through the door, when again the same sharp cry startled her, and lifting her head suddenly she b.u.mped it against the lintel. The pain of the blow was rather severe.
"What did you do that for?" she exclaimed angrily. "Why did you scream out like that? I----" But she said no more. The cry was repeated, and this time it did its work effectually, for Olive awoke. Awoke--was it waking?--to find herself all in the dark, stiff and cold, and her head aching with the b.u.mp she had given it against the old tree-trunk, while farther off now she heard the same shrill hoot or cry of some early astir night-bird, which had sounded before in her dreams.
"Oh dear! oh dear!" she sobbed, "what shall I do? Where am I? How can I ever find my way in the dark? I believe it was all a trick of those nasty blue dwarfs. I don"t believe I _was_ dreaming. They must be spiteful goblins. I wish I had not gone with them to see their village."
And so for some minutes, half asleep and half awake, Olive stayed crouching by the tree, which seemed her only protector. But by degrees, as her senses--her common sense particularly--came back to her, she began to realise that it was worse than useless to sit there crying.
Dark as it was, she must try to find her way back to the little inn, where, doubtless, Auntie and the others were in the greatest distress about her, the thought of which nearly made her burst out crying again; and poor Olive stumbled up to her feet as best she could, fortunately not forgetting to feel for her book and parasol which were lying beside her, and slowly and tremblingly made her way on a few steps, hoping that perhaps if she could manage to get out of the shadow of the trees it might not be quite so dark farther on. She was not altogether disappointed. It certainly grew a very little less black, but that it was a very dark night there was no denying. And, indeed, though it had not been dark, she would have had the greatest difficulty in finding her way out of the wood, into which she had so thoughtlessly penetrated.
Terrifying thoughts, too, began to crowd into her mind, though, as I think I have shown you, she was not at all a timid child. But a forest on a dark night, and so far away from everywhere--it was enough to shake her nerves. She hoped and trusted there was no fear of wolves in summer-time; but bears!--ah! as to bears there was no telling. Even the hooting cries of the birds which she now and then again heard in the distance frightened her, and she felt that a bat flapping against her would send her nearly out of her mind. And after a while she began to lose heart--it was not quite so dark, but she had not the very least idea where she was going. She kept b.u.mping and knocking herself against the trunks; she was evidently not in a path, but wandering farther and farther among the forest trees. That was about all she could feel sure of, and after two or three more vain efforts Olive fairly gave up, and, sinking down on the ground, again burst into tears.
"If I but had a mariner"s compa.s.s," she thought, her fancy wandering off to all the stories of lost people she had ever heard of. Then she further reflected that a compa.s.s would do her very little good if it was too dark to see it, and still more as she had not the slightest idea whether her road lay north, south, east, or west. "If the stars were out!" was her next idea; but then, I am ashamed to say, Olive"s ideas of astronomy were limited. She could have perhaps recognised the Plough and the Pole star, but she could not remember which way they pointed.
Besides, she did not feel quite sure that in Thuringen one would see the same stars as in England or Paris; and, after all, as there were none visible, it was no good puzzling about it, only if they _had_ been there it would not have seemed so lonely. Suddenly--what was that in the distance? A light, a tiny light, bobbing in and out of sight among the trees? Could it be a star come out of its way to take pity on her? Much more likely a Will-o"-the-wisp; for she did not stop to reflect that a dry pine forest in summer-time is not one of Will-o"-the-wisp"s favourite playgrounds. It was a light, as to that there was no doubt, and it was coming nearer. Whether she was more frightened or glad Olive scarcely knew. Still, almost anything was better than to sit there to be eaten up by bears, or to die of starvation; and she eagerly watched the light now steadily approaching her, till it came near enough for her to see that it was a lantern carried by some person not high above the ground. A boy perhaps; could it be--oh, joyful thought!--could it be Rex? But no; even if they were all looking for her it was not likely that they would let Rex be running about alone to get lost too. Still, it must _be_ a boy, and without waiting to think more Olive called out--
"Oh, please come and help me! I"m lost in the wood!" she cried, thinking nothing of German or anything but her sore distress.
The lantern moved about undecidedly for a moment or two, then the light flashed towards her and came still nearer.
"_Ach Gott!_" exclaimed an unfamiliar voice, and Olive, peering forward, thought for half a second she was again dreaming. He was not, certainly, dressed in blue, and he was a good deal taller than up to her knee; but still he was--there was no doubt about it--he was a dwarf! And another gaze at his queer little figure and bright sparkling eyes told Olive that it was the very same little man who had smiled at Rex and her when he saw them leaning out of the inn window that very afternoon.
She didn"t feel frightened; he looked so good-natured and so sorry for her. And somehow Olive"s faith in the possible existence of a nation of dwarfs had received a shock; she was much more inclined to take things prosaically. But it was very difficult to explain matters. I think the dwarf at the first moment was more inclined to take _her_ for something supernatural than she was now to imagine him a brownie or a gnome. For she was a pretty little girl, with a ma.s.s of golden fair hair and English blue eyes; and with her hat half fallen off, and her cheeks flushed, she might have sat for a picture of a fairy who had strayed from her home.
Her German seemed all to go out of her head. But she managed to remember the name of the village where they had been that afternoon, and a sudden recollection seemed to come over the dwarf. He poured out a flood of words and exclamations, amidst which all that Olive could understand was the name of the village and the words "_verirrt_," "_armes Kind_,"
which she knew meant "lost" and "poor child." Then he went on to tell that he too was on his way from the same village to somewhere; that he came by the woods, because it was shorter, and lifting high his lantern, gave Olive to understand that he could now show her the way.
So off she set under his guidance, and, only fancy! a walk of not more than ten minutes brought them to the little inn! Olive"s wanderings and straying had, after all, drawn her very near her friends if she had known it. Poor Auntie and Rex were running about in front of the house in great distress. Uncle and the landlord and the coachman had set off with lanterns, and the landlady was trying to persuade Auntie that there was not _really_ anything to be afraid of; neither bears, nor wolves, nor evilly-disposed people about: the little young lady had, doubtless, fallen asleep in the wood with the heat and fatigue of the day; which, as you know, was a very good guess, though the landlady little imagined what queer places and people Olive had been visiting in her sleep.
The dwarf was a well-known person thereabouts, and a very harmless, kindly little man. A present of a couple of marks sent him off to his cottage near by very happy indeed, and when Uncle returned a few minutes later to see if the wanderer had been heard of, you can imagine how thankful he was to find her. It was not so _very_ late after all, not above half-past ten o"clock, but a thunderstorm which came on not long after explained the unusual darkness of the cloud-covered sky.
"_What_ a good thing you were safe before the storm came on!" said Auntie, with a shudder at the thought of the dangers her darling had escaped. "I will take care never again to carry my jokes too far," she resolved, when Olive had confided to her the real motive of her wanderings in the wood. And Olive, for her part, decided that she would be content with fairies and dwarfs in books and fancy, without trying to find them in reality.
"Though all the same," she said to herself, "I should have liked to taste the roast fir-cones. They did smell so good!" "And, Auntie," she said aloud, "were you singing in the wood on your way home with Uncle and Rex?"
"Yes," said Auntie, "they begged me to sing "Home, sweet Home." Why do you ask me?"
Olive explained. "So it was _your_ voice I heard when I thought it was the dwarfs," she said, smiling.
And Auntie gave her still another kiss.
THE END
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh._
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
Mr. EDWARD SALMON, writing in the _Nineteenth Century_, October 1887, said: "I have left till the last any mention of the lady who, by right of merit, should stand first. Mrs. Molesworth is, in my opinion, considering the quality and quant.i.ty of her labours, the best story-teller for children England has yet known. This is a bold statement and requires substantiation. Mrs. Molesworth, during the last six years, has never failed to occupy a prominent place among the juvenile writers of the season. . . . Mrs. Molesworth"s great charm is her realism--realism, that is, in the purest and highest sense. . . .
Mrs. Molesworth"s children are finished studies. She is never sentimental, but writes common sense in a straightforward manner. A joyous earnest spirit pervades her work, and her sympathy is unbounded. She loves them with her whole heart, while she lays bare their little minds, and expresses their foibles, their faults, their virtues, their inward struggles, their conception of duty, and their instinctive knowledge of the right and wrong of things. She knows their characters, she understands their wants, and she desires to help them. The only sure talisman against domestic trouble she evidently believes to be the absolute trust of a child in its parents."
MRS. MOLESWORTH"S
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