'I don't know,' she answered.

'You must know about how old you are,' he said.

'Oh, about ninety,' she said, 'or more.'

'Ninety years!' exclaimed the Dean.

'No, ninety centuries,' she said; 'I am as old as the marshes.'

Then she told her story--how she had longed to be a human and go and
worship God, and have a soul and see the beauty of the world, and
how all the Wild Things had made her a soul of gossamer and mist and
music and strange memories.

'But if this is true,' said Dean Murnith, 'this is very wrong. God
cannot have intended you to have a soul.

'What is your name?'

'I have no name,' she answered.

'We must find a Christian name and a surname for you. What would you
like to be called?'

'Song of the Rushes,' she said.

'That won't do at all,' said the Dean.

'Then I would like to be called Terrible North Wind, or Star in the