As for Calladon himself, he was one of the best-behaved boys ever

known, and he was not less good-looking than he was good. He was a

fine, straight-backed, rosy-cheeked little fellow, with bright eyes, a

cheerful voice, and an obedient spirit. He was seven years old, and

knew as much as it is well for a boy of his age to know. This was due

to the Master who had charge of him, and who had put across his breast

the gold sash, which always pressed against his heart when he wished

to do wrong, and reminded him to stop. The Master had lived with

Calladon ever since Calladon could remember, and probably for a good

while before that. The Master had tended him in his illness, played

with him in his plays, helped him in his studies, and sympathised with

him in his troubles. Calladon loved the Master as much as if he had

been his father and mother in one. Who his father and mother might be,

he, however, did not know; but the Master used to tell him that when

his education was finished he should see them.

Meantime he was obliged to live in Abracadabra, and make the best of

it. The only one of the three rooms which he had ever dwelt in, was

the central one, Abra; but there was plenty of entertainment to be had

there. In the first place, there was the lamp, which lit up not the

room only, but Calladon's mind likewise, so that the more it shone

upon him, the better he understood his studies. And the lamp was warm

as well as bright; so warm, that not only did it make the room

comfortable, but it warmed Calladon's heart likewise, and made him

loving and generous. In the ceiling of the room a large ball of

crystal was hung on a sort of pivot, on which it could be turned at

pleasure. This crystal ball had the power of reflecting all the places

best worth seeing in the world, and casting the reflections on a white

disc arranged for the purpose underneath. It was by this means that

Calladon had studied geography, and he had enjoyed the study more than

most boys do. At other times, the ball would bring the images of the

stars on the disc, so that you would have thought you were aloft in

the sky, watching all the myriad worlds of light, and their movements.

It may be imagined, therefore, that although Abra did not appear to be

a large room, yet it must have been larger than it looked, since it

was able to contain within itself the whole earth and heaven. Beyond

doubt, Abra was a wonderful place, which everybody ought to see at

some time of their lives. The air you breathed there had a delicate

but powerful fragrance, as if it were life itself; and strangely

beautiful chords of music sounded ever and anon through the room,

coming from no visible instrument, but seeming to arise from the

harmony and happiness in the heart of him who listened to it.

Moreover, although there was not much furniture in the room, nor many

toys to play with, yet whenever Calladon needed anything, he was sure

to find it ready to his hand. It is true that he seldom wished for

anything that he ought not to have, and if he did, the pressure of the

golden sash across his heart warned him to forbear. In short, nothing

could be more delightful and satisfactory than were all the

arrangements in Abra; and, up to the time he was seven years old,

Calladon had never wished for anything that it could not give him.

Sometimes he would amuse himself with looking through the alabaster

walls into the outer rooms, Cada and Bra. These had a beauty of their

own, but it was easy to see that they were less beautiful than Abra.

The best use of them was, perhaps, to let it be known that Abra was

better than they. Calladon once asked the Master about this, and he

answered:

'If it were not for Abra, there could be no Cada, and no Bra. But

neither could there be any Abra, if Cada and Bra did not surround it.

The alabaster wall would burst asunder, and the flame of the lamp

would burn up the world.'

'Where did the lamp come from?' asked Calladon.

'It was here before Abracadabra or the world existed,' the Master

replied, smiling; 'and it will burn for ever.'

'Could not I put it out?'

'No; but you might wander away from it into the darkness outside,'

said the Master, in a graver tone.

'But then could I not light a little lamp of my own, to see my way

about?' Calladon inquired.

'Yes, you might do so,' the Master replied. 'But such a lamp would in

time burn out, and then you could never again relight it, and you

would be lost.'

'I should not like that!' exclaimed Calladon. But after a while he

added, 'Still I do not understand why those two other rooms should be

there, since I never go into them.'

'You live in them, even though you do not go into them,' the Master

answered. 'If you did go into them, you would not live in them so

much as you do now, because you could not take the light of the lamp

with you.'

Calladon said nothing more, but he became thoughtful.

CHAPTER II.

THE LAW OF THE LAMP.

One morning, soon after Calladon's seventh birthday, the Master called

him to him and said:

'My dear Calladon, you have now arrived at the age when I must leave

you for awhile, to think your own thoughts, and do your own deeds. I

am going away, and it is uncertain when I may come back. Before I go I

shall tell you a few things which I hope you will remember.'

'But I should like to go with you,' said Calladon.

'That may come to pass hereafter,' the Master replied, 'but not now,

and it will depend upon what you do and think while I am parted from

you, whether or not it comes to pass at all.'

'What is it that I must do?' inquired Calladon.

'I cannot command you either to do or not to do anything,' the Master

said, 'for I shall not be here to enforce obedience. But I have

already taught you many things, and, if you have studied them with

your whole heart and mind, they will direct you as well as I could

direct you myself. All I shall do, therefore, is to tell you what you

had best avoid doing, and then leave you to follow my advice or not,

as you choose.'

'Oh, there will be no trouble about that!' exclaimed Calladon

cheerfully, 'for will not my golden sash press against my heart

whenever I go wrong, and remind me to turn back?'

'No, for you will not wear the golden sash any more,' replied the

Master. 'You are no longer a little child, and you must no longer

depend on what touches your heart from the outside, but on what moves

it from within.'

'Well, I think I shall like that better, on the whole,' said Calladon.

'It will make me feel more like a man. But what is it that I ought not

to do, dear Master?'

'You ought not to lose faith in the lamp,' answered the Master, 'for

it gives you all you have, and all you are. And you ought not to

leave Abra, for Abra only is Abracadabra. And you ought not to light a

lamp of your own, for it would lead you into darkness.'

'Is that all?' asked Calladon.

'That is all I need tell you now,' said the Master; 'for if you obey

these three rules, you will not need to know more, and if you disobey

them, nothing more that I could say would help you.'

'I would have done all that without being told,' said Calladon; 'and

the only thing I don't like is having nobody to see or to speak to.'

'I have taken care about that,' replied the Master, with a smile, 'and

you will not be left entirely alone. When you wake up to-morrow

morning, you will find a little girl beside you. She is to be your

playmate and companion. She can help you to be happier and better than

you have ever been before; but she can also make you worse and more

miserable than if you were left by yourself. It will be according as

you treat her.'

'Perhaps I had better not have her,' said Calladon.

'You must run the risk; for without risk nothing that is really good

can be got,' replied the Master. 'She will not suggest either good or

evil to you; but if your thoughts are good she will know it, and will

help you to carry them out; and if your thoughts are evil, she will

think evil too, and will give you the means of doing it.'

'Does she know all this?' Calladon asked.

'She will know nothing except from you, and as long as you are

obedient to what I have told you, she will be obedient to you. But if

you become disobedient, she will sooner or later begin to rule you;

and whenever that happens you will be sure to suffer.'

'Then it all depends on me?' said Calladon.

'If harm comes, you will have no right to blame her,' the Master

answered; 'but if good comes, you will have no right to take the

credit to yourself.'

'Well,' said Calladon, after thinking awhile, 'the safest thing will

be not to think of myself at all.'

'There is one thing more,' said the Master, before taking leave of

him. 'You will find, hanging round Callia's neck (Callia is the name

of your playmate), a little mirror, set in a frame of precious stones.

This mirror will always show you an image of yourself, not as you

think yourself to be, but as you really are. If you trust to what the

mirror tells you, you will not know trouble; but if you disregard it,

you will be in danger. The mirror is the only thing that will always

tell you the truth.'

'I will always believe it,' said Calladon; and then the Master bade

him good night, and Calladon fell asleep.

CHAPTER III.

CALLIA AND THE MIRROR.

The next morning, when Calladon woke up, the first thing he saw was a

lovely little girl slumbering beside him.

For a moment he was greatly astonished, for he had forgotten that the

Master had gone, and that he had promised him a companion. But

presently the memory of the day before came back to him, and he

recollected that henceforth he was to take care of himself. The

thought made him feel quite brave and manly; and with such a beautiful

playmate as this to keep him company, he felt sure that he would be

the happiest boy in the world. And as he wanted his happiness, and

hers, to begin as soon as possible, he bent over and kissed her on the

lips.

She opened a pair of lovely blue eyes, and yawned, and said--

'Where am I? Oh! Calladon, is that you? How handsome you look, and

how good you are!'

'How did you know me?' asked Calladon.

'If I am Callia, you must be Calladon!' replied she, laughing. 'Who

else could you be?'

'Now that I look in your eyes, it seems as if I must have always known

you!' said Calladon.

'And I know you the same way,' said Callia.

'But how did you get here?' he asked.

'What a funny question! as if I had ever been anywhere else!'

'It is very strange, however,' he said; 'for though I can remember

living here for a long time and not seeing you, still I cannot imagine

your ever having been away from me. We seem always to have been

together.'

'So we have,' replied Callia; 'and we will always stay together, won't

we?'

'Indeed we will,' said Calladon; 'so now give me a kiss, and let us

have our breakfast.'

Their breakfast was there waiting for them, as was everything else

they needed; and while they were eating it they talked about what they

would do during the day. They soon found out that the difficulty

would be to make a choice from the many pleasant things that suggested

themselves; and whatever one proposed, the other declared to be more

delightful than anything yet. And after all, what could be more

delightful than simply to be together? Calladon was more pleased in

knowing that Callia was pleased than he could have been at anything

that merely pleased himself; and his pleasure gave greater pleasure to

Callia than any pleasure of her own could have done. What they did,

therefore, on this first day, was not of nearly so much importance to

them as that they did it together; and when the day came to an end (as

it did, more quickly than any day that either of them could remember)

all they knew was that it had been one song of joy. As to doing

anything that the Master had warned them against, they really had not

had time so much as to think of such a thing.

But night came at last, and they found themselves getting sleepy.

Before going to bed, Calladon said--

'By the way, Callia, have you got a mirror round your neck?'

'Do you mean this pretty little thing, set in precious stones? Shall

I give it to you, dearest Calladon?'

'Oh, no; only the Master said that I was to look in it every once in a

while, to find out what I really am.'

'You really are the handsomest and dearest boy in the world, and so

the mirror will tell you,' said Callia; and she held it up before him

as she spoke. Calladon looked; and certainly the mirror did show him

the image of a very charming little face and figure. It told the

truth, and the truth was very agreeable.

'I am glad of it for your sake, Callia,' said Calladon. 'I hope I

shall always be as handsome as you want me to be.'

'I don't mind whether you are handsome or not, as long as you are

Calladon,' she answered.

'It seems to me, Callia, that if I have you, and you have me, we do

not need anything else.'

'And it would not make any difference whether we were in Abra or not.'

'I should hardly mind even if the lamp were to go out,' said

Calladon.

'I only care for the lamp because it lets me see you,' she answered.

'And because it lets me see myself in the mirror.'

'Why should you believe the mirror more than me?' asked Callia.

'Well, if you think I am handsome, it is not so much matter whether

the mirror tells me I am or not,' returned Calladon.

And with this they kissed each other, and fell asleep.

CHAPTER IV.

THE OUTER ROOMS.

When they awoke next day, Calladon stretched himself, and shivered a

little. The lamp seemed to be burning rather more dimly than usual,

and the air seemed thin and cold. Glancing at Callia, who was lying

with her eyes still half closed, his eye caught the sparkle of the

mirror round her neck, and he took a peep into it. It seemed to him

that his cheeks looked pale, and his eyes dull.

'Callia!' he exclaimed, 'Callia! wake up, and tell me how I look.'

'You look just the same,' answered she, opening her eyes and sitting

up. 'But don't you think it is colder than it was yesterday?'

'I was sure it was; and if you feel it too, it must be so. But are you

quite certain that I look as well and handsome as when you first saw

me? because, in the mirror, I seemed to be pale and dull.'

'The mirror must be wrong, then,' said Callia; 'for I can see you with

my own eyes, and of course I should know if there were any

difference.'

'Well,' said Calladon, 'I suppose it is time we had our breakfast.'

The breakfast was there, but it was neither so good nor so plentiful

as before; and Calladon and Callia felt comparatively little appetite.

This displeased them; and they began to ask each other how they should

contrive to amuse themselves during the day. They proposed many

things, but afterwards rejected them, either because they had done

them yesterday, or because they did not find them any longer

attractive.

'This is rather a small room, after all, for two people to pass their

lives in,' remarked Calladon at last.

'Especially when there are two other larger ones outside,' added

Callia.

'It would be good fun to explore them, wouldn't it?' said Calladon.

'Why shouldn't we do it?' asked Callia.

'It makes me feel quite lively again to think of it,' exclaimed

Calladon, springing to his feet. 'Only,' he added, 'that is one of the

things the Master told us not to do.'

'Oh, I don't believe the Master would mind,' said Callia. 'Besides,

how should he ever know anything about it? He has gone away.'

'Of course, too, it is our own affair,' observed Calladon. 'If any

harm comes of it, it will be to ourselves, and not to him.'

'I am not afraid,' said Callia. 'Are you?'

'Not in the least. By the way, though, I am not sure that I know the

way out of Abra. There doesn't seem to be any door.'

'I think I can find the way, if that is all,' returned Callia. 'I

don't know how I happened to think of it--but since we have been

talking about going, it has seemed to me that if we were to push

against that little carved knob in the wall, it would open a passage

into the room outside. Shall we try it?'

'Yes,' said Calladon; 'it can do no harm to see whether you are right,

at all events.' So they went to the knob, and Calladon gave it a push.

'Not that way; you should push it sideways; see--like this,' said

Callia; and she shoved it a little towards the right. Sure enough, a

part of the alabaster wall slid back, so that the children were able

to look into the room beyond.

'It seems rather dark; don't you think so?' remarked Calladon, drawing

back after a moment.

'We must take a lamp along with us,' said Callia. 'That lamp that

burns in the centre of the room will be no use to us. We shan't be

able to see anything without a lamp of our own.'

'Well, I suppose we must,' said Calladon. 'Now I think of it, though,

that was another of the things the Master said we ought not to do.'

'What did he say would happen to us if we did do it?'

'I don't remember his saying anything.'

'Of course he didn't! because nothing will happen, except that we

shall know more than we could know by staying here. He was only trying

whether he could frighten you.'

'You shall see that I am not so easily frightened,' said Calladon. 'I

am a man now, and able to take care of myself. Come, let us light a

lamp of our own and go. I will show you the way.'

'Here is a lamp,' said Callia. 'I just found it on this little shelf

in the corner, though I had not seen it there before. But how shall we

light it?'

'We must light it from the great lamp; there is no other way.'

'But then it will be the light of that great lamp that will guide us,

after all.'

'No,' said Calladon, 'because the part of the flame that we take away

will become our own, and would keep on burning even if the great lamp

were to go out.'

They lit the lamp accordingly. As they did so, the air around them

grew colder than before, and a gust of strangely melancholy music

sighed through the room. From the crystal ball in the roof overhead

there came a red reflection, as of some terrible fire burning in the

world without; and then a white flash, as if an angel's sword had

suddenly been thrust down into the room. Now the sword seemed to be

brandished about the great lamp, its point against the children, who

shrank back in fear towards the alabaster wall. Still the sword

threatened them; and there was a violent rush of icy wind, which

forced them to the opening leading to the outer chamber. For a moment

they tried to struggle against it, and not to be driven from the

alabaster room in which they had lived so happily; but the blast grew

stronger, and the sword came nearer; and at last Callia cried out:

'Let us go, Calladon, or our light will be lost!'

'Come, then!' said he; and hand in hand they staggered through the

opening, which closed behind them with a hollow sound. Then there was

silence. Save for the wavering flame of their little lamp they were in

darkness.

'What have you done, Callia?' said Calladon.

'It is your doing as much as mine,' she answered. 'Well, I suppose we

must make the best of it. At any rate, it is not so cold here as it

was in the other room.'

'No, and there is not that terrible light to dazzle our eyes. And that

sword--we are safe from that!'

'I think, upon the whole, we are better off where we are; and I am

glad we came,' said Callia. 'It is more mysterious here, and I like

mystery. If you can see everything around you merely by opening your

eyes, it is stupid. Here we have the excitement of going about and

not knowing what we may find.'

'It is strange it should be so dark!' remarked Calladon. 'On which

side of us is the alabaster wall? No light comes through either side;

and yet, when we were in Abra, it seemed to shine through and

illuminate both the outer rooms.'

'The great lamp must have gone out; all lamps go out after a while, I

suppose,' replied Callia. 'But that is no harm; when we go back we can

light it again from our own. It does not seem so dark here as it was

at first.'

'I can see better, too!' exclaimed Calladon. 'Our lamp seems to be

getting brighter. By and by, perhaps, it will be as bright as the

great lamp was.'

'Meanwhile,' said Callia, 'let us begin our explorations.'

Holding the lamp before them, they advanced together curiously through

the gloom; but, as Calladon had said, their lamp seemed continually to

grow brighter, or else their eyes became more accustomed to the

darkness, so that presently they were able to see their way with

little difficulty. The walls of the room they were in were sombre and

rich; there were carved panels and cornices of metal or stone,

encrusted here and there with what appeared to be precious stones,

gleaming with a dusky red lustre. There was gold, too, here and there;

but not bright and resplendent, like the gold of Abra, but dull and

tarnished, so that it might almost have been mistaken for rusty brass.

As they went along, the black smoke from their candle rose in the air,

and collected in clouds beneath the heavy groined roof, until it hung

above them like a murky canopy. From this canopy a stifling odour

descended, and was diffused about the room; but, strange to say, the

children seemed to breathe it with pleasure, and to grow stronger and

livelier under its influence. At length they came to a great heap of

some dark substance, piled up in an obscure corner.

'What is this?' said Calladon, stirring it with his foot.

Callia stooped down and took up a piece of it in her hand. 'It

shines,' she said. 'It must be something valuable. Hold the lamp

nearer.'

'It is certainly some kind of jewel,' said Calladon, after they had

examined it. 'Perhaps it is a ruby, or a black diamond. Such things

are very precious.'

'We had better take what we can get, then,' said Callia; 'we shall not

find anything like this in Abra--of that I am sure. How foolish you

were, Calladon, never to have thought of coming in here before. It is

ten times better than the other place!'

'I will fill my pockets now, at all events,' replied Calladon, 'and

make up for lost time. What a heap of them! and how heavy they are!

I'm afraid we shan't be able to carry them all.'

'I can hold a great many in my apron,' said Callia; 'and we can take

them to some safe place, and then come back for more. I wonder whom

they belong to?'

'They belong to us, since we have found them,' returned Calladon; 'and

if anyone says they are his, we can say it is not true. Who has more

right here than we?'

'I don't see why we should go back at all,' observed Callia. 'I feel

much more comfortable and happy in this pleasant light and smoke than

I did in that glaring white Abra, with its cold air and its tiresome

music. Suppose we make our home here?'

'I was going to propose the same thing,' answered Calladon. 'And I

have been thinking, Callia, that perhaps this is the real Abra that we

are in now. For what can be better than what we like best?'

As Callia was about to reply, they heard a flapping sound in the air

above their heads; and looking up, they saw a hideous great bird--or

perhaps it was a bat--with black wings outstretched, fiery eyes, and a

long hooked beak, that it kept opening and shutting with a snap. At

this sight the children were much terrified, and started to run away;

but the horrid bird followed them in the air, swooping downwards every

now and then, and pecking at them with its beak, or trying to tear

them with its ugly claws. At length, however, they managed to conceal

themselves behind a buttress in the wall; and the bird flapped by, and

left them.

CHAPTER V.

REGENERATION.

'It will not do to stay here,' said Calladon, as soon as he had caught

his breath. 'That creature probably owns the jewels, and we should

never be safe from him. And I have lost ever so many of the stones

while----' Here Calladon broke off suddenly, and uttered a cry.

'What is the matter?' asked Callia. 'Is the creature here again?'

But Calladon was staring at the mirror which still hung round Callia's

neck, and he looked as if he had seen a ghost.

'Tell me, Callia,' he said; 'tell me quick! Am I the same as I was

before?'

'Just the same, except that you look very much scared at something.'

Calladon gave a shudder. 'Then the glass tells what is false,' said

he. 'It makes me seem like a hideous little deformed dwarf, with a

hump on my back, and one shoulder higher than the other, and a

hateful face all covered with sores and bruises. If I look like that,

I must be more horrible than anything we are likely to see here.'

'The mirror tells lies, that is all,' replied Callia, scornfully. 'If

I were you, I would not look in it again. I can tell you all you need

to know about yourself. But I think we had better attend to getting

away from here now. There seems to be a hole through the wall just

where we are standing. It must lead into the next room.'

'Let us creep through then,' said Calladon. 'That flying creature will

not be likely to follow us there; and as well as I can see, it looks

more comfortable there than here. At all events, it is further from

Abra, and that is reason enough for going.'

'Mind that the lamp doesn't go out, then,' said Callia, 'and come

along!'

They crawled through the opening (which was, in reality, one of the

five windows of Cada) and found themselves standing in something soft

and slippery, like mud. The walls were covered with damp mould an inch

thick; spotted toadstools grew in the crevices of the stones, and

festoons of decaying weeds hung from the roof. There was a low

crackling sound in the air, like the noise of burning wood, and hot

puffs of steamy vapour were wafted into the children's faces, smelling

like the inside of a pig-sty. Strange to say, however, neither

Calladon nor Callia appeared to find this odour disagreeable, but

quite the contrary; and they went onwards with evident gratification.

'The more I think about it, Callia,' said Calladon, 'the surer I am

that this must be the real Abra. Could anything be more delightful

than this thick air, that you can see as well as breathe; and this

floor, all soft and sticky--not hard and dry like the other; and these

beautiful walls, covered with that curious green stuff; and then the

toadstools and the weeds? What a lucky thing that we thought of

coming!'

'And how much wiser we are than we were before!' added Callia. 'When I

was in that dreadful white place, I used to feel as if I knew almost

nothing, and as if the great lamp were the only light in the world.

But now that we have a light of our own, it is easy to see that we

know almost everything, and by the time we have explored this place,

there will be nothing we do not know.'

'This mud must be very valuable,' said Calladon, after a while; 'for I

never saw anything like it before. Don't you think it would be a good

thing if we were to smear ourselves all over with it, and then hang

some of those lovely weeds round our necks?'

Callia was delighted with this idea, and the two forthwith sat

themselves down in the softest mud-heap they could find, and began to

cover themselves with mud very diligently. After this had gone on for

some time, however, Callia suddenly gave a shriek.

'What is the matter?' asked Calladon.

'The snake! the snake!' cried Callia. 'It is winding itself all round

me!'

'And round me too!' screamed Calladon. 'Oh, what shall we do?'

In fact, the mud with which they had covered themselves had become

alive, and was coiling itself tightly about them in the form of

serpents. There were already scores of them, and more seemed to be

coming to life every moment. They tried to run away, but the serpents

twined about their limbs and tripped them up. There seemed to be no

escape; and now, to make matters worse, Calladon's lamp flickered and

went out.

'We shall die!' moaned the children. 'Oh, will no one help us!'

Then a sound was heard like an earthquake, and the walls that

separated them from Abra were rent asunder, and a terrible white light

streamed forth, and fell upon the unhappy children. In that light they

looked at one another, and saw that they were deformed and hideous

beyond the power of words to describe. The next instant the walls

closed together again, but a faint illumination still remained, in

which Calladon and Callia again seemed to themselves to resume their

natural form. But even then, Calladon caught a glimpse of himself in

the enchanted mirror; and there was once more the crook-backed,

grisly-faced dwarf that had frightened him in Cada, now made more ugly

yet by the serpent-mud of Bra.

'Oh, Callia, it is the truth!' groaned he. 'Our own eyes have deceived

us, and our lamp has led us astray; but in the mirror is the light of

the great lamp, and it shows me as I really am.'

'Yes, it is the truth!' answered Callia. 'It must be so!'

'It is well that you have found it out, even so late as this,' said a

stern voice close behind them; and looking round, the children saw a

tall, threatening figure, with angry eyes, and in his hand a heavy

whip.

'Who is it?' faltered the children to each other, with trembling

voices.

'I am he who built Abracadabra,' replied he of the angry eyes,

brandishing his whip. 'I built it clean and wholesome, and you have

made it a place of mud and serpents, and all unclean things. This dirt

in which you have wallowed is the evil that has come out of your own

minds and hearts, and these snakes were called into life by the light

of the lamp which you stole from the lamp of Abra. Therefore your doom

is, to repair the mischief you have done. You shall cleanse these

rooms that you have defiled, until they are as pure as they appeared

when you looked on them through the alabaster wall. From this hour,

too, you shall see each other no more until your work is done. As you

were given to each other for happiness, so, since you have disobeyed

the law by which alone your happiness could be everlasting, you shall

be separated to do your penance. And I will stand over you with the

whip; and every time you pause to breathe or rest, you shall be

driven onwards with a blow.'

Scarcely had the tall man uttered these awful words, than Calladon saw

Callia suddenly vanish from his side; and at the same moment he felt

the heavy stroke of the whip across his shoulders, and heard the stern

voice bidding him work. So to work he went with all his might; and

with his bare hands--for no tools were given him--he strove to scrape

away the mud from the floor, and to clear the mould from the walls,

and to pull down the decaying weeds that dangled from the roof. But,

for a long time, he seemed to make no progress; the mud rose before

him in mountains; the mould collected on the walls as fast as he swept

it down, and the weeds hung from the roof in thicker masses.

Nevertheless, if he stopped to take breath or rest, down came the

heavy whip with relentless blows; his skin was cut and bleeding, his

face was bruised, and the bones of his back were broken. With tears

and groans he struggled on; and ever and anon in the darkness near him

his ear caught the sound of sobbing and piteous cries, and the voice

that uttered them reminded him of the voice of Callia.

Thus he strove for many weary hours; and at last it seemed to him that

he could strive no more, yet half his work was still undone. But the

thought that, unless it were finished, he would see Callia no more,

gave him new strength, and he fell to again, and worked like a

whirlwind; and the mountains of mud gave way before him, and the mould

fell from the walls in showers, and the dangling weeds were swept down

in mighty heaps. And although the blows of the whip still fell, they

no longer weakened him as before, but made his strength greater.

Indeed, it seemed to him as if he were inspired with a strength not

his own, and as if, when the work were done, it would be the

achievement not of himself, but of a mightier than he. In the midst of

these thoughts the gloom suddenly brightened, and he saw that his work

was done.

'Well, Calladon, what do you think of yourself?' said the tall man, in

a somewhat less stern tone than before. 'Are you as handsome as you

once were?'

So Calladon looked at himself; and he saw that he was begrimed with

dirt, and that his back had been broken by the whip, and one shoulder

made higher than the other; and his face was bruised and covered with

sores. There was nothing beautiful about him.

'I have become what the mirror has already showed me that I was,' he

said humbly. 'But I would rather seem as ugly as I am, than seem

beautiful when I am ugly.'

'Calladon,' said the tall man again, 'your work is done, and you

deserve some reward. You may choose what it shall be; but I will tell

you beforehand that, if you choose to be made beautiful again as you

were before, it shall be done.'

'I would rather be made happy.' replied Calladon, 'and it would make

me happy if I could see Callia once more.'

'So be it!' said the tall man, kindly. 'Come with me!'

He took Calladon by the hand, and instantly the light grew brighter;

the dark walls grew white; there was a sound of music in the air, and

a delicate perfume of flowers came to Calladon's nostrils. He looked

up and saw that he was in Abra; and the great lamp burned in the

centre as before.

'Oh, not here!' he exclaimed, shrinking back and hiding his face. 'I

am not fit to be seen in the light of Abra!'

'Take courage,' said his guide. 'Callia is here. See, she is asleep.

Go to her, Calladon, and look in the mirror on her bosom.'

So Calladon drew near, and looked into the magic mirror. But instead

of a hideous and misshapen little dwarf, it showed him the image of a

noble and beautiful boy, with rosy cheeks and bright eyes. At the same

moment Callia awoke; and seeing Calladon, she sprang up with a cry of

joy and kissed him. She was as lovely as the day.

'The mirror tells you the truth now as always, Calladon,' said the

Master's loving voice--for it was he. And he laid his hand upon him,

and instantly the deformed shell in which Calladon was clothed fell

from him, and he was more beautiful than ever. From that time forth

there was no unhappiness for either Callia or Calladon, because they

had learnt that the light of Abra was the only true light, and that

their strength was not their own.

THEEDA.

CHAPTER I.

THE BOOK AND THE VASE.

Oscar lived beside the sea, and had no companions except the waves,

the seagulls, the sunsets and sunrises, the moonlight and the shore.

He was happy, and yet there was something that he wanted. He could not

tell what that something was, but he did not the less feel the need of

it on that account.

He knew that he had a father, but he had never seen him. He knew that

his father cared for him, and gave him what he needed to eat and drink

and wear. His mother had told him that his father was wise and

powerful and good; and that once, before Oscar was old enough to

remember anything, he had lived with her in the cottage beside the

sea. But soon after Oscar was born, his father had left them and gone

across the sea to another country. When a few more years had passed,

he had sent for Oscar's mother to follow him, and she had gone. Oscar

could just remember the ship which had taken her away. He had sat in

the cottage doorway, and watched the ship grow smaller and smaller as

it receded over the waves. At first its sails had looked dark, because

they were against the light; but a moment before it touched the

horizon, where earth and heaven meet, the great white light from

beyond had touched the sails, and made them gleam like angels' wings.

Then ship and sails had settled into a lustrous invisibility; a long

wave had broken with a hollow sound upon the shore, and a feeling of

tender sadness had come into the little boy's heart.

Although he was alone, however, he was not lonely; there was a great

deal to amuse him. The cottage, which was made out of the hull of an

old fishing boat, was as pleasant a place to live in as a boy could

wish. It was divided into two rooms, in one of which Oscar slept, and

in the other he ate his dinner. The furniture was very simple--a bed,

a chair or two, a table, and a bookshelf; but these were all that

Oscar required; and besides, he spent most of his time outdoors. There

were two other things in the dining-room, however, for which he cared

very much. One was a large book, which lay on the bookshelf. It was a

gift which his father had left for him when he went away. It was a

large heavy book, with a dark binding and a golden clasp. This clasp

could be opened only by pronouncing over it certain words which

Oscar's father had bade the boy's mother teach him when he should be

old enough. These words were a secret, and if the secret were

betrayed, certain penalties would follow. It was Oscar's habit, on

getting up every morning, to take the book from the bookshelf, and

having spoken the magic words, to open it and read. Now, the pages of

the book appeared like ordinary printed pages, and if anyone besides

Oscar had looked into them, they would have read only a number of

stories which were not very interesting, and which did not seem to be

of any especial importance to anybody. But with Oscar it was very

different; for, as the morning sunshine fell upon the page, he saw,

not the printed words, but wonderful pictures, which lived and moved,

and had many strange and beautiful meanings. The pictures were

something like the world in which the boy lived, but much brighter

and more glorious, and the people who moved in them were far nobler

and handsomer than any that Oscar could have imagined; and chief among

them was a grand figure which the boy recognised as his father. While

going over the pages of this mysterious book, therefore, Oscar, in his

lonely cottage, was able to see with his own eyes all the mighty deeds

that his father had done, and even many of those that he was at that

moment doing; for the book was a living book, and though it told of

marvels in comparison with which all other fairy stories would seem

dull and commonplace, yet these marvels were all true. By studying

that book a man could become wiser than the wisest of philosophers,

and see more than the greatest of travellers, and yet remain as simple

as a little child. It would take a long time to tell you even a few of

the wonders which this book held between its dark covers. One of them

was, that if Oscar was in any trouble, he had but to open his book,

and the pictures would show him how the trouble was to be overcome.

Every pain that he could suffer, and every difficulty that he could

meet, had been met and suffered by his father long before; so that by

seeing what his father had done, he learned what was the best thing to

do himself. For Oscar was like his father, though he was but a little

boy.

The other thing that the dining-room contained was a large crystal

vase, which stood in the window. It had seven sides, and was so large

round that Oscar could not make his arms meet about it. It was filled

with the purest water, and at the bottom were sand and pebbles, and

delicate seaweeds, red and green, and pieces of rock covered with

curious mosses and tinted lichens. It was like a little sea, only that

there were no living animals in it. But under the shadow of one of the

rocks lay a large pearl shell, which Oscar fancied must hold some

living thing, although, often as he had watched it, it had never yet

moved or opened. But the boy had faith and patience, and every new day

he went to the vase, in the hope that now at last something might have

come from the pearl shell. It lay quiet, however, and kept its secret

to itself. It must certainly be a pleasant secret, Oscar thought, for

the shell was exquisitely curved, and its pearly sides shone with a

delicate lustre. And the more he pondered over the matter, the surer

he became that the vase must have been given for the sake of the

shell, and that by-and-by the shell would show why it was there.

Sometimes he felt tempted to take it out of the water, and try whether

he could see inside of it. But he could never quite bring himself to

do this, because, though the vase and the shell were his own, he felt

that they had been given to him to look at, and not to meddle with. In

his book, too, he saw that the night always comes before the morning,

and the winter before the spring; and though he did not understand why

that should be so--why the morning should not begin just after the sun

had set, and the spring buds and flowers come out as soon as the red

and yellow leaves of autumn had fallen--yet he saw that one wave

followed another to break against the shore, and that every flower was

a bud before it was a blossom, and that no happiness was so happy as

that which had been waited for; so he believed that the secret of the

shell would disclose itself when the right time should come, and

that to try to find it out beforehand would perhaps be to lose it

altogether. Moreover, was not the shell beautiful enough as it was?

CHAPTER II.

OSCAR INSIDE OUT.

When these early morning hours were over, Oscar used to go out of the

cottage and wander about beside the sea. The waves murmured to him,

and the sun was warm; the seagulls wheeled above his head and screamed

with their wild voices; great white clouds built themselves into

cities and palaces before his eyes; lights and shadows wavered

everywhere, and made the grey rocks and the distant mountains seem

alive; winds whispered in the long grass, and sang crooning melodies

in the branches of the trees; little insects and animals ran hither

and thither, and seemed busy even when they were doing nothing.

Sometimes the rain fell, making a secret sound in the leaves, and

causing the surface of the clear pools to leap aloft in tiny pyramids;

then the green plants stood up and stretched out their stems, taking

their wetting gladly, and growing taller after it, though it had made

them bob their heads. With the evening, splendid colours came along

the sky, though the hand that painted them was not seen: they, too,

spoke a kind of language; the glories of the day that was past, and

the thoughts and hopes that Oscar had had, seemed to glow in the

heavens as they glowed in the boy's memory. They faded at last, and

night darkened the world, so that Oscar might not forget the moon and

stars. These never slept, and therefore Oscar knew that he might

sleep. The rays that came from them found their way silently into his

heart, and filled it with the fresh and quiet fancies that afterwards

grew into dreams. For his dreams did not come from the world he lived

in, but from some other.

But what was this that the waves and the birds, and the light and

shadow, and the trees and the rain, and all the rest of it, were

trying to say to him? Was it really anything? and if it were, why

could he not understand it? Sometimes he thought he almost understood

it. If the things would speak a very little plainer, or if he could

see and hear the least bit more clearly, there would be no more

mystery. He thought they would say, 'Oscar, we are like you. We are

here because you are here. If you were not Oscar, we should not be

what we are. And if we were not here you could not speak, nor think,

nor be glad or sorry.' But they never did quite say this. Therefore

Oscar was not quite content, and he felt that he needed something, he

knew not what, more than the earth and the sea and the sky had given

him. They were so friendly to him that they made him long for a nearer

friendship still. He could not come closer to them; and if they could

not come closer to him, must not something be wrong? He found them

always fresh, and full of new things that never came to an end; they

were alive, but the life they had was not quite the same as his own

life. The world was so big that he could not put his arms round it and

hug it; it was calm and orderly, and although he could never get to

the end of the new things that were in it, yet he knew that every year

it was the same world that it had been before. It was not so with him;

for, in spite of his being always Oscar, he knew every day that he

never had been and never would be exactly the same Oscar that he was

at that moment. So the world was not only too big for him, but, in

another way, it was too small for him also. The world could live only

a year, after all, since one of its years was the same as another; but

Oscar felt that he could live innumerable years, because no one of his

years was the same as any other. Oh, if he could only find something

to love that would grow in the same way that he grew, and answer him

when he spoke, and be in all ways both as large and as small as he! Up

and down the shore Oscar wandered, and through the green shade of the

rustling forest, and with his eyes he sought amidst the clouds and the

stars, but the thing that he wanted he did not find.

When the rain came down too hard, Oscar would stay within the cottage,

and study his book, or watch his pearl-shell, or sometimes go into the

bedroom and look at the things his mother had left behind her. They

were very ordinary things, and there were very few of them; but they

were dearer to Oscar than anything else. Here was the jacket his

mother used to wear, and against which Oscar's face had often rested,

while she nursed him in her arms, or lulled him to sleep. It was full

of wrinkles and stains, and was torn in one or two places; but it was

his own mother's own jacket, and made him think so vividly of her kind

face and loving eyes and warm soft arms, that he would heave a deep

sigh, and sit still with his eyes very wide open. Then there was the

comb that his mother used to wear in her hair. It was made of white

ivory prettily carved. Oscar remembered how his mother used sometimes

to take out this comb while he was sitting on her lap, and let her

hair tumble down about her shoulders; and she used to let him feel its

smoothness with his small hands, and taught him how to braid it by

weaving three strands of it in and out.

The feelings that Oscar had while sitting in the bedroom with these

and other things that had belonged to his mother were very different

from any that came to him while he was outdoors. They were less

cheerful than his outdoor feelings, but he liked them better. For in

thinking of his mother he forgot himself; he had been able to put his

arms round his mother's neck and to kiss her cheek. She had loved him

and called him by his name; he had known that no other boy could be to

her what he was; she had comforted him when he was hurt or grieved;

she had been made to be his mother, as he had been made to be her son.

It was not so with the world outdoors--with the earth and the sea and

the sky. These had been made for Oscar perhaps; but if Oscar had been

some other boy they would still have remained. They belonged to him

only because he was a boy, and not because he was the boy Oscar.

Therefore he could not forget himself in loving and giving himself to

them, as he had done in loving and giving himself to his mother. All

this brought him to think that unless, out of the earth and sea and

sky, something could come to him that should both bring them nearer

and yet be different from them, the promise which they seemed to hold

out to him would not be fulfilled. It was not a bigger or a more

beautiful world that he wanted, but a world within the world, which

should contain all that made the outer world beautiful and lovable,

and something more besides. Such a world within the world his mother

had been to him; but it was not his mother that the boy looked for,

because he knew that she was gone never to return. What was it then?

Oscar did not yet know; but now something began to stir within him

that seemed to mean that the answer would not be long delayed.

CHAPTER III.

THE PEARL-SHELL'S GIFT.

One morning, as he was sitting with his book open upon his knees, the

page at which he looked seemed suddenly to be overspread with a grey

cloud. At first he could not see through the cloud, but after a while

lights and shadows began to stir duskily within it, and presently he

saw, as through a mist, some one walking along a lonely pathway in a

forest. The mist gradually cleared away, but the face of the person

was turned from him, so that it could not be known who he was. The

person came to an opening amidst the trees, overspread with soft green

grass and flowers of many hues. In the centre of this grass-plot was a

fountain, bubbling up like living crystal from a basin of sparkling

sand. Around the margin were the golden smile of buttercups and the

blue glance of forget-me-nots. The wanderer drew near and bent over

the fountain. Then, out of the pure water, an arm was stretched

upwards, holding in its hand a radiant pearl. The wanderer took the

pearl, and then the mysterious hand and arm were drawn under the water

again and disappeared. The wanderer looked at the pearl and seemed to

rejoice in it, as well he might; for it was the most precious of all

pearls. But while he was rejoicing, a man came up to him who, though

he had eyes and a tongue, was both dumb and blind; but he talked very

rapidly with his fingers, as most dumb persons can do; and he used his

nose instead of eyes, for he judged whether or not a thing were

beautiful or valuable by smelling of it. The wanderer spoke to this

odd person, and bade him look at the pearl and rejoice with him. But

the other shook his head contemptuously, and said with his fingers

that his eyes were not made to see, and that seeing was all folly and

deception; and that a good nose was worth all the eyesight in the

world. So, instead of looking at the pearl he smelt of it, and after

doing so again shook his head contemptuously, and pulled out of his

pocket a raw onion. 'Smell of that,' he said with his fingers; 'that

is worth all the pearls in the world!' and then he began to try to

persuade the owner of the pearl, by many clever and cunning

arguments, to throw the pearl away, and take an onion in its stead.

Oscar bent forward in great eagerness to see whether the owner of the

pearl could possibly be so foolish as to let himself believe that the

most precious pearl in the world could be exchanged for an onion; but

just then the mist arose once more, and rapidly deepened to an

impenetrable cloud, and the figures of both the man with the pearl and

of the man with the onion were blotted out. Oscar closed the book. All

the rest of the day he could think of nothing but this strange

picture; and he wondered deeply whether the blind man with the onion

had succeeded in making the other man as blind as himself. If only the

cloud had held back a few minutes longer!

Before Oscar went to bed he looked into the crystal vase, to see

whether there were any change in the shell. For the first time it

seemed to him that it had really moved a little. But the light was so

dim that he could not be sure. Out of the window the sea had a

marvellous twinkle of moonlight over it, and the night air was cool

and sweet. Suddenly, a hideous bat, with broad noiseless wings of

filmy black, hovered into the room, poised itself for a moment over

the crystal vase, and then flitted away again.

The next day was one which Oscar, so long as he lived, never forgot.

He had had a strange dream during the night, and this had taken from

his memory the change which he had fancied he noticed in the shell

before going to bed. But now, when he went as usual to look at it, he

saw that a change had taken place indeed.

The shell was rolled over on its back; the lid, which heretofore had

closed its mouth, was open; and the shell was empty. Oscar could see

far down into the very depths of the curving interior; it was as

smooth as satin, and looked fit to house the queen of the fairies. But

there was nothing in it. When, however, Oscar raised his eyes, he

beheld a sight which made him draw in his breath with a long sigh of

amazement and tremulous delight. The two largest pieces of rock in the

vase leaned together in such a way as to make an arch, upon the sides

of which delicate leaves of pink and green seaweed grew, and other

broader leaves clustered together in a sort of grove further back.

Within this grove Oscar now perceived a movement, as if something were

advancing through them. In a moment they parted, and a fairy-like

little figure floated between, touching the sand with the tips only of

her tiny feet. Forward she came until she stood just beneath the

highest part of the arch. She was scarcely six inches tall, but she

was perfectly formed in every part; and her face, though it was less

than an inch long, was completely and exquisitely beautiful; and,

moreover, it looked even more good than lovely. Her hair, which was

finer than the finest cobweb, floated around her like a sort of brown

mist; it was very thick and immensely long--nearly five inches! Her

skin was more pure and delicate than the inside of a white geranium

bud; but the palms of her little hands had a faint rose tint, and so

had the tips of her infinitesimal fingers and toes. Her eyes were like

fairy forget-me-nots; and, ah! who can describe that tiniest marvel of

all perfection, her mouth, with its tender curved lips, and teeth no

bigger than grains of white sand. This little lady carried in one hand

a broad frond of green weed, which arched over her head and protected

her from the rays of the sun that fell through the crystal sides of

the vase. Round her neck was hung a necklace of seed pearls that might

have come out of a mussel as large as a millet seed. From the waist

depended a curiously woven girdle made of thread-like sea-grasses of

various colours. There she stood, gazing straight at Oscar with her

wondering blue eyes, and her lips half parted. And Oscar gazed at her,

almost afraid to breathe, lest she should vanish out of his sight. For

he could not yet believe that she was real. He had never even dreamed

of anything like her before. But he was awake, and she still stood

beneath the archway of rock, and he saw many sweet expressions pass

over her face. Yes, she was a real, living little maiden, and she had

come into the world to make Oscar happy; to supply the want he had

felt; to be something that he could love and live for.

Oscar felt so tenderly towards her, and so fearful lest he should do

something to alarm or shock her, that at first he did not venture to

do anything at all. He was so terribly big, he thought, that she must

find him frightful. He longed to show her in some way that there was

nothing in his heart but love and reverence for her. In the midst of

his perplexity, however, the little maiden smiled a smile that was all

the more delightful because the eyes and mouth she smiled with were so

small; and with a light movement she half walked, half floated towards

him, until she stood close to the crystal side of the vase. The tips

of her fingers rested against it, and she looked up at Oscar with a

glance so winning and so confiding that he no longer felt any doubt

about her or about himself. He stooped down and put his lips to his

side of the crystal vase, and they kissed each other through it.

In this way the pledge of friendship between them was given. As soon

as it had been done, the little maiden made a leap as of joy, and then

began to dance about inside the vase, sometimes touching the sandy

bottom, but most of the time gliding to and fro in mid-water, turning

herself this way and that in graceful caprioles, diving through the

archway and coming up out of the grove of seaweeds on the other side;

waving her arms about her head with dreamy motions; sometimes resting

quietly upon nothing, as if she were asleep; then swimming like a fish

with her arms folded and her feet crossed one over the other; and now

playing at peep-bo with Oscar behind the rocks. Oscar had never been

so delighted; his eyes sparkled and his cheeks were red. At last his

little playmate dived into the pearl-shell and disappeared, and the

boy began to fear that he should see her no more. But in a very short

time she came out again, holding something in her hand. She smiled and

nodded to him, and rose up through the water until she nearly reached

the surface. Oscar thought she must be coming out, and his heart beat

with expectation. But she was not coming out. Instead of that, she

stretched up her tiny hand above the surface, and Oscar now saw that

it held a pearl. He cautiously put out his own hand, and took the

pearl from her fingers. Then she nodded again, and descended.

'Is this for me?' asked Oscar, very softly.

Hereupon she made him the most charming little bow imaginable, at the

same time bringing both her hands to her lips, and blowing him a kiss.

'Thank you, you lovely little creature!' said Oscar. 'But can you

understand all I say to you?'

Again the little maiden smiled, and nodded her head up and down.

'And can you speak also?' the boy demanded.

She put up one hand, and waved it slowly backwards and forwards before

her face.

'Ah, she cannot speak!' thought Oscar; and he felt a momentary touch

of sadness.

But at that an expression came into her face that seemed to say, as

plainly as could be, 'If I cannot talk as you do, still I can talk.'

And not only did her face seem to say this, but she said it, as it

were, with all there was of her; and although in one sense there was

very little of her, yet in another sense there was so very much, that

not the largest giant ever heard of could have said so much without

speaking as she could. Oscar could not account for it. Talking without

speaking was something new to him. 'But, after all,' he thought,

'nobody could talk under water; and no doubt thinking under water is

the same as talking out of it.' Besides, though this wonderful little

water-maiden was but six inches tall, her thoughts were evidently

quite as big as those of an ordinary grown-up person, so that they

must be so much the more easily visible. And, finally, why should

Oscar trouble himself about how anything happened, as long as it did

happen, and was agreeable? Probably it was because he already loved

this exquisite fairy so much, that he was able to understand what was

passing in her mind.

He named her Theeda--he did not know why, except that that sounded as

if it must be her name, and she seemed to be perfectly satisfied with

it. And so these two fell in love with each other at first sight,

though she lived in water and he in air, and there could therefore be

no meeting between them, except the meeting of their hearts and eyes.

They must even kiss each other through the crystal. Nevertheless they

were as happy as the day was long, and indeed much happier, for time

is a thing with which happiness has very little to do. Oscar's only

regret was that Theeda could not be with him when he took his walks

upon the shore. He enjoyed his walks, however, more than he had ever

before done, because now the earth and the sea and the sky not only

said to him, 'We are like you, Oscar,' but also, 'Theeda loves you!'

CHAPTER IV.

THE CRAB.

Oscar could never see enough of his little water-maiden; and he talked

to her perhaps all the more because she answered him only by

sympathetic thoughts. He told her all that he knew of his life before

she came to him--about his dreams by night and his reveries by day;

about all the beauties of the world that she could not see from the

crystal imprisonment of her vase; about his mother, too, and how the

sails of the ship in which she went away had been lit up by the light

beyond just before reaching the horizon verge. He spoke likewise of

his father, how good and great he was, and how, although he lived and

ruled in a distant country, he never forgot to send his little son all

things that were necessary for his comfort and happiness.

'And I believe, Theeda,' added Oscar, 'that he put you in the

pearl-shell for me. Perhaps you have seen him?'

Theeda threw back her floating mist of hair, and smiled.

'Ah, of course, everybody who is good and lovely must have come from

him,' Oscar murmured, as if answering something she had said. And then

he went on to talk about the book, and of the strange picture he had

seen in it the day before she appeared.

'I think, now,' he said, 'that the wanderer in the forest must have

been myself; and the precious pearl that was given to him out of the

fountain was you. But who was the blind and dumb man with the onion?'

At that Theeda's head dropped, and she sank slowly down on the sand,

and she hid her face in her hands.

'What is the matter, Theeda?' cried Oscar; 'dearest Theeda, what has

happened?'

She partly lifted herself up, though still crouching in the sand, and

held out her arms towards Oscar as if entreating him to do something.

And now, for the first time, he could not read her thought. She seemed

to beseech him; but he, who would have given her everything, knew not

for what she besought him. At last she trailed herself to the side of

the vase and put up her lips to be kissed.

'I love you, Theeda!' said he. 'See! with my whole heart!'

But all that day Theeda's sadness did not wholly pass away; and each

morning afterwards, when Oscar first came into the room, she would

meet him with a kind of timorousness, and would not be happy until he

had kissed her through the crystal, and had told her again that he

loved her.

She was by no means an idle little maiden, however. The vase was her

home and her garden, and she was busy many hours a day in keeping it

in order and making it more and more beautiful. It was wonderful how

much she found to do. In some places, where the red and green weeds

grew too thick, she pruned them with a little knife that Oscar had

given her, made out of a piece of a mussel shell, and cut away the

pieces that were decayed. She sifted the brown sand between her

fingers, and cleansed it from all impurities; and she brought the

prettiest of the pebbles and laid them in tasteful patterns. She

plaited a kind of hammock out of the sea grass, and hung it at the

entrance of the archway; and in the afternoons, when the sun was hot,

she lay in it and took her siesta. And now Oscar, from time to time,

put in little sea-animals to keep her company and amuse her; he found

many such in the rock pools along the shore. There were prawns, almost

transparent, striped like zebras with fine pink stripes, and having

long feelers like hairs, which they waved about, and, as it were,

asked delicate questions with them of everything that came near. They

moved as lightly as thistledown and as swiftly as sunshine. Then there

were fishes, slender little things an inch or two long, with round

astonished eyes, and open mouths that looked as if they were saying,

'Hoo! hoo!' They were of all colours, and some of them had

fierce-looking spines on their backs, which they could move backwards

and forwards very much as a horse moves its ears. These fish were at

first very timid, and kept under the shadow of the rocks, or lurked

amidst the seaweed. But Theeda soon made friends with them, so that

they regularly came to her to be fed, and sometimes she used to play

at tag with them, darting round and round inside the vase, and in and

out amongst the rocks, while the weeds waved to and fro like banners

in a gale of wind. Oscar also brought sea-snails, with brightly tinted

shells, which crawled slowly about, measuring their way with their one

soft foot, and stretching out little transparent horns in front, like

children feeling their way in the dark. Besides these there was a

hermit crab, which lived in a pearl shell very much like Theeda's, but

only about a sixth part as big. This crab was the only ill-natured

creature in the vase. He sat sullenly in the door of his house, in a

little hollow under a large stone; his little dull eyes stuck far out

of his head, and his ugly claws hung down in front like a pair of red

fists. He never had a pleasant word for anybody; but, if any came near

him, he either pettishly hitched himself back into his shell, or else

made a vicious snap at the visitor with his claws. He even snapped at

Theeda two or three times, and then Oscar wanted to take him out and

throw him back into the sea. But Theeda was very forgiving, and would

not let this cross little crab be punished. She always treated him

kindly, brought his dinner to him every day, and did all she could to

make him goodnatured and comfortable. But nothing seemed to make him

any better; and one day, when Theeda had made him let go of a prawn

which he had caught by the tail with one of his claws, he flew into

such a terrible passion that Oscar felt very glad, for the sake of the

other creatures in the vase, that he was no bigger. He made up his

mind to have him out before long.

Except for the crab, the vase was the most charming place to live in

that could be imagined, and Oscar often wished that he were able to

breathe under water as easily as Theeda did, and that he were as small

as she was. Theeda, no doubt, wished so too; but it was not to be.

Then Oscar used to hope that, some day, Theeda would grow up to be as

tall, or nearly as tall, as himself, and then come out of the water,

and live with him in the cottage. But that did not seem very likely to

happen either. And perhaps, after all, they were as near together as

many people who live in the same house, and are separated by neither

water nor crystal. Only, when Theeda brought out her oyster-shell

dinner-table, and set it under the bower of green ulva leaves, and

placed upon it her little cockle-shell dishes of fresh sea vegetables

(which was all she ate), Oscar's very heart ached to be sitting at the

opposite side of the table and dining with her. Water then seemed to

him a much more agreeable element to pass one's time in than air. But,

although wishing can do a great deal, it could not quite make a merman

of Oscar. Theeda ate her dinners by herself except for the tit-bits

that she gave to the prawns and snails, and the scraps that the fishes

stole when they thought she was not looking.

'Some day, Theeda, perhaps....!' Oscar used to say, without ever

finishing the sentence.

Theeda understood very well what he meant, and used to look as if she

meant it also. And Oscar's father, who was as powerful as he was kind,

would no doubt be able to make them happy in the way they wanted, if

he saw that it was best for them. But the hermit crab had a very ugly

and malicious look, as if he had a mind to prevent anybody from being

happy if he could.

CHAPTER V.

A STRANGER.

One morning, while Oscar was looking into the vase, and admiring the

bright silver beads that were forming all over the leaves of seaweed,

and on the lichen-covered surface of the rocks; and while Theeda was

busy feeding the fishes, who seemed to get hungrier the more they ate;

and just when Oscar was about to remark that the hermit-crab was not

in his usual hole, nor anywhere else that he could see--at that moment

a dark shadow suddenly fell across the vase, shutting it off from the

sunlight, scaring away the fishes, and making Theeda look up with a

start, and then quickly take refuge in her shell, as from something

she feared.

Oscar also looked up, and saw somebody standing before the window.

It was a boy; but a very odd boy, Oscar thought. He was not any bigger

than Oscar, but he seemed to be a good deal older. He had a broad

flat face, with a sharp little nose in the middle of it, a wide thin

mouth, and pale eyes which stuck out very far, and over which he wore

spectacles. He had pale reddish hair growing upright on his head. His

legs were so thin that it seemed a wonder he could stand upon them,

and indeed they were bowed out sideways, as if the boy's weight were

too much for them. His arms also were thin, but his hands were

immensely large and red, with stiff, thick fingers, and huge thumbs.

He was not quite facing the window, but stood sideways towards it, and

looked at Oscar askance. The skin of this boy's face was coarse and

rough, and seemed as thick as orange-peel.

'What is your name?' asked the strange boy, after a while.

Oscar told him what it was.

'What an absurdly old-fashioned name!' said the boy, contemptuously.

'I have a better name than that--my name is Kanker!'

'Do you want anything?' said Oscar.

'Yes,' said Kanker. 'I want to ask questions. I am in search of truth.

I never believe lies; so you needn't tell me any.'

'I never tell lies,' said Oscar, gravely.

'That is a lie to begin with. Everybody tells lies--except me!

Everything lies--the things that can't talk, as well as the things

that can. The world is a lie.'

'The world is not a lie,' said Oscar, indignantly. 'And if you think

it is, why do you search for truth?'

'I have at all events found the only truth there is to be found--and

that is, that everything is a lie,' replied Kanker. 'I have proved it

a thousand times already, and every new question I ask proves it

again.'

'What makes your hands so big?' Oscar could not help asking.

'They are no bigger than they ought to be,' Kanker answered, holding

them up and looking at them admiringly. 'I use them to touch things

with. I never believe in anything that I haven't touched. Nothing

exists unless I can touch it. Come out of that room, so that I may

touch you, and see whether you exist.'

'I will come out,' said Oscar; for he thought it would be better to go

to Kanker than to have Kanker come in to him. 'But you need not touch

me; I can touch myself if I want to.'

Nevertheless, no sooner had he come out than Kanker took hold of him

by the arm, and gripped it so hard with his big red hand that Oscar

said, 'Let go, you hurt me!'

'Your touching yourself would prove nothing to me, you know,' said

Kanker. 'Well, you seem to exist. Where are your father and mother?'

'They are not here,' answered Oscar. 'They are gone--long ago.'

'I don't believe it. Where did they go to?'

'Over there,' said Oscar, pointing across the sea.

'Nonsense! Do you mean they are drowned?'

'No. They are gone to a country over there.'

'How do you know there is a country over there? Did you ever touch

it?'

Oscar shook his head.

'I thought so. Then there is no such place. Therefore your father and

mother have gone nowhere. Therefore they do not exist. And what

business have you to exist if you never had a father and mother?'

'I don't know what you mean,' said Oscar, 'and I don't care whether I

exist or not, so long as I do what is right, and am happy.'

At this Kanker laughed, a spluttering laugh, as if he had his mouth

full of water. 'Sit down here beside me,' he said, 'I want to ask you

some more questions.'

Oscar sat down beside him. He did not at all like Kanker, whose voice

was as harsh as his manners were impolite. And he was certainly ugly.

When Oscar did not look full at him he had something the appearance of

a gigantic crab, which was increased by his sidelong shuffle in

walking, and by the two great red hands that he carried hanging before

him, very much as a crab carries his claws. He held a sun-umbrella

over his head, a small book in one pocket, and a roll of measuring

tape in the other. Nevertheless, Kanker seemed to know so much, and to

be so positive about what he knew, that Oscar could not help thinking

he must be an important person; not the sort of person to be

contradicted, especially by a person who knew so little as Oscar did.

'For, after all,' Oscar thought, 'a great deal of what I supposed I

knew has only been told me. I do not know it as he knows things--by

touching them. It may be, as he says, that some things that seem to be

true are not true. I wonder whether he believes in the sun and the

stars? He can hardly have touched them! And I wonder why he wears

spectacles?'

'Why do I wear spectacles?' repeated Kanker; for Oscar had spoken the

last sentence aloud. 'To see with, of course! Nobody can see without

spectacles; and not only that, but nobody can see with any other

spectacles than these I have on.'

'Oh, you are mistaken there,' exclaimed Oscar; 'for I have never worn

spectacles, and I have always been able to see.'

'You never saw anything in your life,' replied Kanker, very

confidently. 'You only think you see. That is your hallucination. An

hallucination is when you think a thing is so, and it isn't. You are

blind, and probably deaf and dumb as well. What books do you read?'

'I have only one book,' said Oscar; and then he told what a wonderful

book it was; how it could only be opened by repeating certain mystic

words, and how its pages were full of living pictures, representing

things which had been done in the world, and which were being done

now. Kanker burst out laughing.

'I don't believe it,' he said. 'It's an hallucination. There is no

such book, in the first place, and if there were, it couldn't be what

you say it is.'

This made Oscar angry. 'There is such a book,' said he, 'and if you

don't believe it I can show it to you.'

Kanker went on laughing and wagging his great hands up and down. 'Oh!

show it to me--show it to me!' he spluttered. 'Let me touch it with my

fingers, and then perhaps I'll believe.'

'Come into the house, then, and you shall touch it!' exclaimed Oscar.

He sprang up and went into the house, and Kanker followed him readily

enough. 'Let me put my fingers on it--that's all I ask,' he kept

repeating. 'Let me touch it.'

'There!' said Oscar, 'there it is on that shelf. Do you believe now?'

Kanker took the book down from the shelf, and felt it all over. 'I

believe that this is something that feels like a book,' he said at

last. 'But I don't believe it is a book until I see it opened; and

then I shan't believe it has the pictures you talk about unless I see

them, and can put my finger on them; and I don't believe you can open

it.'

'I can open it!' cried Oscar.

'If you can do it, then why don't you?' Kanker replied.

Now Oscar knew that the mystic words which undid the clasp were a

secret which he had no right to disclose. But he wanted so much to

show Kanker the inside of the book, and make him acknowledge that he

was wrong, that everything else seemed of little account in

comparison. He took the book from Kanker's hands. As he did so, a

strange feeling came over him. A voice, that seemed to speak not to

his ears, but within him, bid him pause. Did he care so much for this

Kanker, with his flat face and his great red hands, as to betray the

secret which his mother had confided to him? Oscar hesitated.

'Ha! I knew you were lying!' said Kanker, with his disagreeable laugh.

'You shall see that I am not!' retorted Oscar, becoming angrier than

ever. Then he began to repeat the mystic words. But he found it hard

to pronounce them, and some of them he could scarcely remember. His

teeth chattered as he went on, and his heart beat painfully. But

Kanker was watching him askance with his pale spectacled eyes, and

Oscar would not stop. At last he had spoken all the words; the clasp

flew back; the book opened!

'There!' said Oscar, thrusting it into Kanker's hands. 'It is open:

now look for yourself!' Then he turned away, and hid his face in his

hands.

All of a sudden he heard again Kanker's hateful spluttering laugh. He

looked up in astonishment. Kanker was pointing contemptuously to the

page.

'No pictures here!' he was saying. 'Show me your pictures! There's

nothing but printing here, and very stupid commonplace printing too!'

Oscar fixed his eyes upon the book; but they were darkened, and at

first he could see nothing. At length his sight cleared; but, alas! it

was as Kanker had said: there were no pictures in the book, no beauty,

no life, and no mystery. It was just like any other book--ordinary

pages printed with ordinary print. There had been some terrible loss,

but whether the loss were in Oscar or in the book, Oscar could not

tell. He stood there unable to speak, and almost to think.

'It is just as I knew it was,' said Kanker, throwing down the book.

'Another of your absurd hallucinations. You dream about things until

you think they are real. You had much better do as I do--wear

spectacles, make up your mind that everything is a lie, and trust to

your fingers. By doing that you might, in the course of time, come to

know something. Look here, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll make an

exchange with you. It isn't a fair exchange, for what I give you is

worth a great deal, and what you give me is worth nothing. You give me

your book, and I'll give you mine.'

'What is your book?' Oscar asked.

'An arithmetic, to be sure!' replied Kanker, pulling it out of his

pocket. 'See, here is the multiplication table. And here are addition,

subtraction, multiplication, and division. And here are vulgar

fractions. And here are examples. And here is the Rule of Three.

That's what I call a book worth having.'

'But if you think my book is not worth having, why do you want it?'

'To make a fire to warm myself with,' Kanker replied.

'If you are cold, will not the sun warm you?' asked Oscar.

'No one has been able to prove that there is any warmth in the sun,'

said Kanker. 'It only seems to be warm. But I know that a fire is

warm, because I can burn my fingers in it.'

'But if the sun feels warm, is not that as good as if it were really

warm?'

'For you it may be,' answered Kanker, 'but not for me. I care only for

truth, and I don't choose to be warmed by anything I don't believe in.

That is the reason I carry a sun-umbrella. Well, will you let me have

your book?'

'It is no more use to me,' said Oscar, gloomily. 'I do not care

whether you take it or not, or what becomes of it.'

'You will find my arithmetic much more useful,' returned Kanker. 'Come

outside and see me make my fire.'

But Oscar turned sullenly away.

Kanker went outside the cottage, with the book in his arms. After a

moment, Oscar could not help going to the window to see what was being

done.

Kanker had laid the book across two stones, and had gathered some bits

of driftwood from the shore for kindlings to put underneath. Now he

struck a match, and held it to the kindlings. But at that there was a

sudden and mighty sound, like thunder, and also like a great voice

speaking some solemn and awful word. And the book seemed to dissolve,

and in its place arose a tall pillar of light, more dazzling than the

lightning, which hung for a moment near the earth, and, to Oscar's

amazed eyes, took on the likeness of a glorious and majestic figure,

which bent upon him a look that made his heart tremble. Then the

figure moved away through the air seaward, casting a radiance across

the waters, and making the sun look red and dim. It drifted slowly

away over the sea, and at last became as a bright star, further and

further off, until it vanished in the depths of the sky. Then a great

coldness fell upon Oscar, and the daylight became dusky to him, as if

it were already evening; and he knew that the dazzling face which he

had seen was the face of his father. Now he understood what the book

had been; but it was too late.

CHAPTER VI.

THE SECRET OF THE WAVES.

It seemed to Oscar that many hours passed away while he remained

crouched down on his knees in a dark corner, shivering and miserable.

At last he looked up. It was evening, and a bitter wind was blowing

outside; heavy clouds were driving across the sky, and rain was

beating on the roof. Kanker was sitting in the middle of the room,

with his chin upon his hands, staring at him.

'You had better go,' Oscar said. 'What other harm do you want to do

me?'

'It is you who have done harm to me,' replied Kanker, 'by giving me a

box of gunpowder to make a fire with. The explosion has cracked my

spectacles. However, I bear no malice. What do you keep that jar of

sea-water for?'

'Ah! that is where Theeda lives,' exclaimed Oscar, rising, with some

cheerfulness in his face. 'I had forgotten her.'

'Theeda? what is Theeda?' demanded Kanker.

'She is my playmate and companion,' Oscar said. 'She is dearer to me

than anything else in the world, and nothing in the world is so lovely

as she.'

'And do you mean to say she lives in the water? Pray, how big is she?'

'She is not so tall as your hand is long.'

'No such creature ever existed,' said Kanker, positively. 'In the

first place, no one ever was made of that size, and in the second

place, it is impossible for anyone to live under water. It is another

of your hallucinations. There is no use in your denying it. I shall

believe in her when I see her, and not before.'

'I will not let you see her,' replied Oscar.

'Just what I expected! When did you see her last yourself?'

'Just before your shadow fell across the vase.'

'What language does she talk?'

'She does not talk at all, but I know all she thinks.'

'This is really too absurd! Have you ever touched her?'

'No. It is enough for me to look at her.'

'I will tell you what it is,' said Kanker, lifting up one of his ugly

fingers and holding it at the side of his little sharp nose. 'You are

crazy--quite crazy! You have lived here by yourself until you don't

know what is real from what isn't. Now, I will make this bargain with

you. If you will let me put my finger on this Theeda of yours, and I

thereby prove to my own satisfaction that she exists, I will let you

use me for your servant the rest of my life. Do you agree?'

Oscar waited a little while before answering. He hated Kanker, and he

thought that if Kanker became his servant, he should be able to make

him as miserable as Kanker had made him. He did not stop to think

whether Theeda would like to be touched or not; it seemed to him an

easy way of being revenged on his enemy, and that was all. 'Yes, I

agree!' he said.

'Very well!' returned Kanker. 'And, of course, if I prove that Theeda

does not exist, you are to become my servant for the rest of your

life?'

'There is no danger in my promising that,' said Oscar. 'Let it be so

if you wish.'

'Very well!' said Kanker again; and then they both went to the vase.

'Where is she?' asked Ranker. 'I don't see her.'

'Oh, she has gone into her shell; it is late--she must be asleep by

this time,' answered Oscar. 'You must wait until to-morrow.'

'That won't do!' said Kanker. 'The agreement was for this evening. If

you back out, you become my servant.'

'It shall be this evening, then,' replied Oscar; 'but you will regret

it more than I!' And stooping over the vase, he called, 'Theeda!

Theeda! wake up! come out!'

They waited a moment. There was no movement in the great pearl shell,

and Theeda did not appear.

'Come! there's enough of this nonsense!' Kanker exclaimed. 'You may as

well make up your mind at once to being my servant.'

'Not yet!' said Oscar, scornfully, and he called in a louder voice,

'Come out, Theeda! Come out--I want you!'

The shell stirred slightly, but still Theeda did not appear. Kanker

laughed.

Then Oscar grew angry, and in a harsh tone he cried, 'Theeda, come

out! or I shall not love you or believe in you any more!'

The sun had set long ago, and the sky was almost dark; but now,

through a break in the clouds, the moon shone down, white and clear,

into the crystal vase. It gleamed upon the pearly shell; and in its

cold lustre Oscar saw the tiny water-maiden, whom he had loved better

than anything else in the world, and who was the most precious thing

that the world contained, come slowly out of her shell, and stand

downcast and drooping before him. Then he felt that, in his anger, and

in his desire to be revenged on his enemy, he had done a wicked thing,

which could not be forgiven. He had shown what was most sacred and

dear to his own soul to one who could neither believe in her nor

reverence her. His heart was filled with bitter sorrow and repentance;

but again it was too late.

For, as Theeda stood there in the moonlight, drooping amidst her

shadowy mist of hair, Kanker put out his hideous red hand, that was

less like a hand than like a crab's claw, and plunging it into the

water, he tried to grasp Theeda round the waist. But his fingers met

together, and behold! no Theeda was there. She had faded into

nothingness where she stood; or else the shadow of a cloud which at

that moment passed across the room, and made the vase and the room

dark again, had caused her to become invisible. Before she

disappeared, however, she bent one sad reproachful look upon Oscar,

and he knew that he had seen his mother's spirit in her eyes. He

understood all then; but it was too late indeed!

'I told you how it would be!' said the harsh voice of Ranker, with his

spluttering laugh, 'and now you are my servant!'

'Yes, for I have lost my Theeda!' answered Oscar, with a heavy sigh.

But even as he spoke, he chanced to turn his eyes towards the sea.

Beyond the moon he saw a pure white cloud drifting down the sky. To

Oscar's fancy it took on the likeness of a female form--the form of

someone whom he knew and loved. She seemed to beckon him to a far-off

country, whither Kanker could not come, and where he would be free.

'Yes, I will follow her!' Oscar thought; and, in some way, he slipped

from where he was, and left the cottage and Kanker behind him, and

went down towards the ocean.

Kanker did not at first know that Oscar had escaped, for he had left

something behind which resembled him, but was not really he. The next

morning, when the sun peeped as usual into the crystal vase, neither

Oscar nor Kanker were to be seen. But, in the pearl shell, where

formerly Theeda had lived, sat a great ugly crab, twiddling its huge

red claws, and peering this way and that with its malicious little

eyes, which stuck far out of its head. Oscar was not in the cottage,

nor on the shore, nor has he, from that day to this, ever reappeared

there. But, if you should ever happen to visit the place, you will

hear the waves murmur mysteriously to one another, as they gambol

along the beach; and since they come from that far-off line where the

world meets the sky, they may possibly know more about Oscar and

Theeda than people like Kanker would be apt to believe.

THE END.

_Spottiswoode & Co., Printers, New-street Square, London._