of a horse and cart. . . . And that absurd state of affairs must
have gone on for days and days. I see this little lady, hovering
about him and trying to amuse him, too dainty to understand his
complexity and too tender to let him go. And he, you know, hypnotised
as it were by his earthly position, went his way with her hither
and thither, blind to everything in Fairyland but this wonderful
intimacy that had come to him. It is hard, it is impossible, to give
in print the effect of her radiant sweetness shining through the jungle
of poor Skelmersdale's rough and broken sentences. To me, at least,
she shone clear amidst the muddle of his story like a glow-worm
in a tangle of weeds.

There must have been many days of things while all this was happening--
and once, I say, they danced under the moonlight in the fairy rings
that stud the meadows near Smeeth--but at last it all came to an end.
She led him into a great cavernous place, lit by a red nightlight
sort of thing, where there were coffers piled on coffers, and cups
and golden boxes, and a great heap of what certainly seemed to all
Mr. Skelmersdale's senses--coined gold. There were little gnomes
amidst this wealth, who saluted her at her coming, and stood aside.
And suddenly she turned on him there with brightly shining eyes.

"And now," she said, "you have been kind to stay with me so long,
and it is time I let you go. You must go back to your Millie. You must
go back to your Millie, and here--just as I promised you--they will
give you gold."

"She choked like," said Mr. Skelmersdale. "At that, I had a sort
of feeling--" (he touched his breastbone) "as though I was fainting
here. I felt pale, you know, and shivering, and even then--I 'adn't