In the poem the Gnome had turned to a "tall and comely man" when the
lady kissed him. She liked the lady; there had been something so gay
and friendly about her, just in those few words, that Joy's heart
felt warmed. Very few people near her own age came close enough to
stately little Joy to be as friendly as the lady had been--or as the
wishing-ring man had been.

"Somewhere," Joy decided happily, "there must be lots of people like
them, if I could only find the place. I'm sure I shall some day."

She sat on in the gathering twilight, waiting for them to return. As
she sat the thought of the wishing-ring man came back again.
Wherever he was, he was wishing her well, and remembering her--he
had said--what was it--he'd had a "human five minutes" with her. Her
heart beat unreasonably, as if he might be coming down the brown
path in the twilight, this instant,--as if the golden lady might
bring him back with her.

It was nearly dark, and the wind was getting colder, when the hoofs
sounded down the path again. There were three of them now--and Joy's
heart gave a little spring, till she saw that the man riding the
other horse was no one she knew. The pony was riderless, and he was
leading it, while the naughty little boy who had caused all the
trouble was perched in front of the lady's saddle, most impenitently
conversational. She had one arm tight around him, as if she did not
want to lose him again, and she was smiling down at him and
answering him gaily as he talked. Punishment was evidently waived,
or so far in the future as not to worry anybody. The child's clear
little assured voiced came to her, sitting in the shadows.