A little ship stood by the shore of the great sea; into this Eline
entered. There were other ships, some better, some worse. But somehow
she knew that just this, and not another, was the ship she wanted, and
none questioned her when she entered.
So they sailed away towards the setting sun.
Long was the voyage and lonely; for the seas ran high and all was dark
below in the heart of the ship. Nine months they sailed on the ocean,
until in the time appointed land appeared. Strange dwellings were there,
domes and spires and crowded cities. With wide, wondering eyes Eline
watched them as the ship passed them by in strange procession; for the
men of that land were like none she knew; none of these things could she
remember. For she had forgotten even her name at the river of
forgetfulness, where remembrances are left in the mirror of the waters
until time and their creator bring them back to life.
It seemed as though one of wise and kindly countenance held her as a
little child in his arms and whispered softly, "Remember! I will return!
I will! I will!" A light of happy recollection came to her and she
smiled in reply. He had spoken in her own language as the harp had
spoken, and strangely, strangely she seemed to see in him the harper
whose music had told her of the sorrowful land beyond the sunset. For
this moment, she remembered, and then the thought departed.
At first the air seemed heavy and oppressive to the wanderer; but by
degrees she grew accustomed to it and even, in time, scarcely felt
it. Yet ever and again a dim remembrance of brighter, purer skies came
to her. She spoke of this more than once; but others only laughed and
said: "The child is dreaming!"
[Illustration]
Because she was no longer dressed in shining garments, they did not know
her for the princess she really was. Indeed, she was no way different
from those around her but that at heart she was still the daughter of
the king. They could not see her heart--this they could not know. And
seeing that they did not understand, she said no more of the thoughts
that came to her. They called it dreaming; but Eline thought that if
this were so, a dream were better than a waking life--unless--
Could these be thoughts that came to her of the world beyond the water,
the reflection of the real life? She knew not.
"We must teach this little dreamer what is life!" they said. "She will
not know what life is if we leave her to her dreams."
They made her work and made her play: work that never seemed to do
anyone any good, and play that seemed like work. She nearly forgot that
in what they called her dreams she had ever known of another life.
Sometimes she sang to herself, strange songs that they said sounded sad
and sorrowful, yet of a sweetness all their own.
"Where does she hear them?" people asked.
But Eline never told. For the truth was that they came to her in moments
when her thoughts were far away, dreaming.
"She sings like a bird in a cage that knows of a brighter world
outside," said one. But he was a poet, so they only smiled as if they
themselves would have made the same remark if it had not been so
fanciful.
And though men thought her sad and lonely, there was joy to her in the
hum of the bees and the song of the birds and the rustling of the
leaves. The butterflies and the flowers and the brooks were her friends.
"What a strange child," people said when they heard her talking to these
friends. They did not know of the stories her friends told her, stories
which reminded her of a wonderful garden of delight where men did not
ever stare and stare in gaping wonder because a little child talked with
the fairies that live in all things beautiful, clothed in robes of
sunlight and rainbow hues.
They would have taken her away from these friends but for one old man,
her grandfather, who said:
"The child will be better for the fresh air. Let her live while she
may."
So it was that she played and talked with the flowers and sang to the
brooks and listened to the stories of the forest trees that whispered
among themselves. None dared take her away.
One day she had been for a long ramble by a mighty river, and the sun
had sunk to the westward on its journey; but she turned not to the place
she called her home. Tired and worn out with her play, she lay on a rock
and slept.
In her sleep it seemed that a touch upon her forehead awakened in her a
vision of things she once had known, but had now almost forgotten. There
was the king's garden and the palace, and the other wonderful buildings,
tall and stately--mighty buildings which seemed to speak of mighty
builders, noble thoughts and great men's deeds. Some were even more
stately, some more humble, than the palace. But in all there was a sense
of grander, nobler life than the life those knew who were with her now,
and who, laughing, called her a dreamer.