were very young and with just that mutual jealousy, that intolerantly
keen edge of criticism, that irrational hunger for a beautiful
perfection, that life and wisdom do presently and most mercifully
dull. What the precise matter of quarrel was I have no idea. She may
have said she liked men in gaiters when he hadn't any gaiters on,
or he may have said he liked her better in a different sort of hat,
but however it began, it got by a series of clumsy stages to bitterness
and tears. She no doubt got tearful and smeary, and he grew dusty
and drooping, and she parted with invidious comparisons, grave doubts
whether she ever had REALLY cared for him, and a clear certainty
she would never care again. And with this sort of thing upon his mind
he came out upon Aldington Knoll grieving, and presently, after
a long interval, perhaps, quite inexplicably, fell asleep.

He woke to find himself on a softer turf than ever he had slept
on before, and under the shade of very dark trees that completely
hid the sky. Always, indeed, in Fairyland the sky is hidden, it seems.
Except for one night when the fairies were dancing, Mr. Skelmersdale,
during all his time with them, never saw a star. And of that night
I am in doubt whether he was in Fairyland proper or out where the rings
and rushes are, in those low meadows near the railway line at Smeeth.

But it was light under these trees for all that, and on the leaves
and amidst the turf shone a multitude of glow-worms, very bright
and fine. Mr. Skelmersdale's first impression was that he was SMALL,
and the next that quite a number of people still smaller were standing
all about him. For some reason, he says, he was neither surprised
nor frightened, but sat up quite deliberately and rubbed the sleep
out of his eyes. And there all about him stood the smiling elves
who had caught him sleeping under their privileges and had brought