eyes still wider.

"Tell us about him," he demanded.

Vashti eyed the child curiously for a moment before answering. "He
lives in the north," she said, "in a city where the sea is sometimes
frozen for weeks in the winter, and where night after night you may see
the Northern Lights over the roofs. That is why he writes so much of
snow and fir-trees and cold winters."

Annet nodded. "I have seen the Northern Lights--once--from Saaron
here," she announced proudly. "Father took me out of my bed and held me
up to the window to look at them; Linnet, too--but she was too young to
remember, and Matthew Henry was not even born at the time."

"But tell us," persisted Matthew Henry, "about the man who wrote the
book."

"Well, the Northern Lights were shining in the streets on the night
when I met him. I drove to his house in a sleigh from the theatre--if
you know what a theatre is?" Vashti paused dubiously; but Annet nodded
and assured her--

"That's all right. We don't know about these things, but they are all
in the book."

"And so," said Vashti, "is the man himself, or most of him. He was a
queer, shy old man, with oddly-shaped hands and feet, but oh, such
timid eyes! And he lived in a fine house all by himself, for he had no
wife. In the days when he wanted a wife he had been an Ugly Duckling,
and now, when he had turned into a swan, it was too late to marry. He
was very old indeed; but this was his birthday, and he had lit up all
his rooms for us and made a great feast, and at the feast he made me
sit on his right hand.... There were princesses to do him honour, but
he chose me out because I had sung to him; and the princesses were not
angry because he was an old man. Out in the streets the people were
letting off fireworks, and while he talked to me I could hear the whole
sky banging with rockets and crackers. It put me in mind of his story
of 'The Flying Trunk.' But he talked of Italy and the South, because I
had come from there; and of the Mediterranean and of beautiful inland
lakes which he had known, but would never see again; for he was over
seventy. And he told me that, in spite of the snow and frost outside,
he could feel the spring coming northward again with the storks. It was
the last time (he said) that he should ever see it, but he filled his
glass and drank to me because, as he put it, I had sung the South back
to him for this last time. So now you know why I was proud to come to
you out of his book."