Laura's step was light and brisk, for she carried a light heart, she was
animated by a new purpose; the pleasure of doing good, or of only having
the wish to do good, was a new happiness to her, and as she walked she
trolled out a merry little song she had heard Nannette sing in the
nursery. When she grew weary, she sat down and made a wreath for her
hat; when she was thirsty, she drank from the little cup at her girdle,
for there was always a stream at hand, first on one side of the road,
then on the other, and the babbling of the brook was like a pleasant
voice telling her sweet stories. It seemed to whisper to her how glad
her mother would be to hear that she was getting to be a better child.
Then again it sang to her of the woods and the mosses, the wild-flowers
and the birds, and of its own busy life--how much it had to do to keep
all these pretty things refreshed and alive, and how it suffered when
the drought came, and the sun was scorching, and the little leaflets
withered on its brink; and as its voice became sad, and tears welled in
the child's eyes, it would suddenly seem to burst into a foam of
laughter and toss itself in tiny cascades over the pebbles. Then Laura
would laugh too, and forget all sadness. Then she would take off her
shoes and stockings and wade, and watch the flies dart hither and
thither as she dashed the drops apart. So the day went on. Her path grew
wilder, the woods more difficult to go through. Great masses of tangled
vines interlaced and hung low, reaching out their tendrils as if to
hinder her. Clouds gathered, and the skies were dark. A storm seemed
coming. The birds ceased twittering. Low mutterings of thunder, far
away, broke the stillness.
Laura's feet were aching, and her heart oppressed. Doubts troubled her.
Why had they let her come alone on this long journey? It was cruel. She
forgot the poor children, and, throwing herself down, she thought she
would go no farther. Her staff was still in her hand, and as she fell it
seemed to draw her gently up again, just as a magnet picks up a needle;
it led her to a little cave or grotto, merely a nook under great rocks,
but in it was a heap of leaves which would serve her as a place of
repose, and she would be sheltered from the approaching storm, which,
now that the wind had arisen, was swaying the trees violently. Crouching
in a corner, she listened to the crashing of boughs, the peals of
thunder, and the dash of the rain. But she was safe and unharmed.
Gradually the wind decreased, the vivid gleam of lightning stopped
flashing in her frightened eyes, the thunder rolled farther and farther
away; the birds began chirping softly; there was but a gentle plash of
drops from the dripping leaves; long rays of sunshine stole in between
the branches. The storm was over.
Laura took courage, ate her dinner, and started forth again.
She was not so merry as in the early morning; Nannette's song was
forgotten; but in her graver face was an expression of determination.
The poor children came again to her recollection, and she renewed her
zeal.
On and on she went, sometimes nearly falling, but her staff maintained
her, and prevented that. She climbed, she waded, she slipped, she
scrambled. Sometimes on dizzy heights she looked down into chasms; then
she would cross peaceful and lovely valleys; then the road would wind up
to some high summit again, giving her pictures of mountain-peaks and
clouds and all their many charms; and while on the crest of a high hill,
with all the heavens in a glow, she saw the sun sink beneath the
horizon, and knew that darkness would soon surround her. Hurriedly
descending, her staff led her to a group of oak-trees, whose wide and
shadowy boughs seemed to offer her the protection of which she was in
need. Farther and farther sank the sun, leaving clouds of purple and
gold to fade into the soft shades of twilight. The hush of evening fell
upon nature; stars peeped out. Laura watched the waning light until, too
tired to keep her eyes open, she laid her head upon her little knapsack,
and was soon in a deep slumber. Whether or not wild beasts came prowling
about, or owls hooted, or the night winds sighed in the tree-tops, Laura
knew not; she slept as soundly and as safely as if in her own carefully
watched nest in the castle. When she awoke, the sun was rising, birds
were singing, and every blade of grass twinkled with dew-drops. After
her morning prayer of thanks for the night's rest, a dip into the brook
close by, and a little shake and jump by way of dressing, she sat down
to her breakfast of oat-cake.
[Illustration: "SHE SAW A QUEER LITTLE FIGURE MAKING GRIMACES AT HER."]
As she munched it in leisurely fashion, wishing for some honey, she
thought she saw a queer little figure making grimaces at her. It was an
odd little creature, with a rabbit-skin so thrown over him that she
fancied it might, after all, be only a bunny out in search of breakfast.
"Good-morning, my dear, good-morning! So you wish you had some honey, do
you?" said the queer little creature.
Laura laughed out in surprise. "How do you know?" she asked.
"How do I know anything, Miss Rudeness? By my wits, to be sure."
"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Laura, conscious at once of having
offended; "but I did not know I had spoken aloud."
"Nor did I; we people of the woods do not wait to be spoken to--we are
wiser than you. But do you really want some honey? If so, come with me
and I will show you where you can find it."
"But who are you? I never saw you before," said Laura, forgetting that
the little creature had already shown himself to be easily angered.
"Who am I? What difference is that to you?" said the queer little
object. "Honey is honey; if you want some, come with me; if you don't,
stay where you are."
"Oh, really," said Laura; "you are very kind. I do like honey, and it
would be very nice with my dry oat-cake;" and, forgetting her staff, she
followed the elf into the woods. He led her to a hollow tree, and,
flinging his rabbit-skin away, clambered into the cavity, and came out
with a great mass of glistening honey dripping from its white comb.
"Here; now let me see you eat it," said the elf, putting on his
rabbit-skin again, and laying the honey-comb on a broad leaf at her
feet. Laura sat down and dipped her oat-cake into the honey.
"It is delicious," said Laura. "Won't you have some?"
"I? No, indeed," said the elf, standing off and gazing at her curiously
from beneath his bushy little eyebrows.
"Don't you care for it?"
"No; I'd rather sharpen my teeth on an acorn."
"But that is so bitter."
"It suits my digestion. I am a planter of bitter herbs."
"Are you? Oh, then you must know my good friend Grim?"
"To be sure I do! He came to see me a few days ago."
Laura thought Grim must be mistaken in his belief that the elves were
fond of teasing children, for surely this one had been kind to her, when
suddenly she remembered that she had not her staff with her. She jumped
up hastily, crying out:
"Oh, my staff! my staff! I must go back and find it."
"Ha! ha!" laughed the elf, evidently amused at her alarm.
"Which way must I go?" asked Laura, anxiously.
"Any way you please, my dear. Is not the honey so good as it was?"
"Oh yes, yes, it is just as nice, and I thank you ever so much for it.
Now, please, dear Mr. Elf, let me go for my staff."
"I am not keeping you, am I?" laughed the elf, beginning a strange sort
of dance, rubbing his hands together, and giving a series of jerks to
the rabbit-skin.
Laura was ready to cry with vexation and alarm, but something seemed to
tell her that she must control herself and not let this mischievous
creature know how she felt; so, springing to her feet, she said, "I,
too, can dance--see," and she waltzed away as if she were in a
ball-room.
"Hurrah!" shouted the elf; "that is capital."
"Shall I teach you how to do it?" asked Laura, stopping to get breath.
"Yes; let me see the steps; go slowly. Oh, your feet are so big and
clumsy I cannot copy you."
"But, Mr. Elf, you do it beautifully--really you do. Now show me,
please, where the oak-trees are, that I may find my staff."
At this anxious request the elf started on a run, whooping and
hallooing. Laura could do nothing else than follow him, but she found it
difficult, he was so small and sprightly. Nimbly he leaped over the
rocks, turning occasionally to make a queer grimace at poor Laura's
efforts to keep pace with him. When it pleased him, he stopped and
waited for her to come up.
A happy thought came to Laura. "Mr. Elf," said she, "I have a fine knife
here. You could use it for almost anything. See, it is nearly as long as
your arm, and it has a very curiously ornamented case, all of silver."
"Let me see it closer," said the elf, reaching up for it.
Laura held it high out of his reach, but his eyes evidently danced with
eagerness to get it.
"A little closer--a little closer," said the elf.
"Not till I have my staff: give me that, and you shall have this," said
Laura, shutting the knife and holding it still over his head.
"You have no fun in you. What do you want of your staff? Stay here in
the woods, and you'll not need one. But you have not told me where you
are going."
All the time he was speaking, the elf had his eyes on the knife; but
Laura was guarded.
"I am going on an errand of charity, and I need my staff; please give it
me. Look what a knife this is"--and she sprung the blade open again;
then, assuming to be weary of waiting, she said, "Well, I must go
without my staff, I suppose. I have lost too much time already.
Good-morning, Mr. Elf. Your honey was very nice; I am much obliged.
Good-morning;" and she turned as if to go.
"Hoity-toity! you _are_ in haste. Well, if you must go, good-bye. Your
staff is on your left-hand side, beneath the very trees before you. But
how will I get the knife now?"
"Here," said Laura, only too glad to regain her precious staff; and
giving the knife a toss on the grass, she ran for her stick. The elf
shouted and danced again, and, shouldering the knife as if it had been a
great bludgeon, he disappeared in the forest, the rabbit-skin dangling
behind his back.
Laura was greatly relieved, and started on her tramp with the resolve
that nothing should hinder or detain her again. All day she kept in the
bed of the brook, as the Motherkin had told her to do, and as it grew
afternoon and the rocks became precipitous it seemed to her that she
could not go farther; but thoughts of the children inspired fresh
courage. Her feet were aching, but as she reached the top of the high
bank which bordered the stream, she espied a little thin curl of blue
smoke rising probably from the very cottage of which she was in search.
Pushing on through brambles and bushes, led by the gentle guidance of
her valuable staff, she at last came to the cottage door, and, with her
heart beating rapidly from excitement and fatigue, gently knocked for
admittance.