But when extraordinary things are just on the point of getting _too_
extraordinary, they are sure to meet with some sort of an interruption,
and after that they are quite ordinary and every-day again. So when
Lionel opened his eyes there he was curled up in the chair by the
drawing-room window, and it had grown very dark and must have been
late, for one of the maids was tripping softly about the room, lighting
the lamps and singing as she did it.




MARIE AND THE MEADOW-BROOK.

A little maid sat sadly weeping while the sunbeams played merrily at
hide-and-seek with the shadows that the great oak branches cast on the
ground; while the warm summer wind sang softly to itself as it passed,
and the blue sky had not even a white cloud with which to hide the sad
sight from its eyes.

"Why do you weep?" asked the oak-tree; but Marie did not hear it, and
her tears tell faster than ever.

"Why are you so sad?" questioned the sunbeams; and they came to her
gently and tried to peep into her eyes.

But she only got up and sat farther away in the shadow, and they could
do nothing to comfort her. So they danced awhile on the door-step; and
then the sun called them away, for it was growing late.

And still the little maid sat weeping; and if she had not fallen asleep