Part 21 (2/2)
”_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
STORY BOOKS FOR CHILDREN.
With Ill.u.s.trations by Walter Crane.
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Four Winds Farm.
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Two Little Waifs.
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