nd the tree's
me!"

"_I_," said Trudel, correcting him, "would be more correct."

"Rubbish," said the little man, "Pedantic rot!--the tree's _me_, I
repeat. Every tree has its gnome or elf; they used to call us dryads in
old times; but nowadays people are getting so cock-sure of knowing
everything, that they can't see what is going on right under their
noses. Trees are never still," he continued; "they are always moving.

"'Where there is movement, there is life,
Where there is life, there is thought,
Where there is thought, there is individuality.'

"Do you follow me? That is logically expressed."

"You forget we are only children, Mr Tree Man; you are talking too
grown-upy for us. Father talks like that sometimes; but then we don't
listen," they replied.

"Well," continued the gnome, "in every tree there either lives a jolly
fellow like me or a lovely lady fairy. Yes," he said in a sentimental
tone, "I, too, old and tough though I am, I, too, have known love."

"Who is she?" asked Trudel eagerly.

"Alas! I can never reach her; my old bones are too stiff and unbendable.
She is a graceful larch-tree in all the glory of her youth. You may see
her yonder!" He sat down and sighed deeply.

The children looked in the direction that the gnome had indicated, and
there they saw a larch-tree on which the sunlight had just fallen. It
was exquisitely dressed in a robe of delicate green and--was it only
fancy?--for one moment the children thought that they saw a lovely lady
with flowing tresses that gleamed golden in the sunlight, and large
starry eyes. As they gazed, she melted into the blue mist which shimmers
always between the forest trees.

"Now we must go home, children," mother called out, "before it begins to
rain again."

The children glanced round; their little friend had vanished, and no
trace was to be seen of the lady of the larch-tree. So they turned
reluctantly from the tree-house fully determined to come again very soon
to this enchanted spot.

"Mother, may we see your sketch?"

"Not now," said mother, "it's going to be a surprise."

"Did mother see him too?"

"Do you think so?" said Lottchen. "Mother's a fairy herself."

"I think," said Trudel, "she sees all sorts of queer things; but she
won't tell us everything she sees."

"It spoils some things to tell about them," said Lottchen. "I shan't
tell Hermann and Fritz about the tree man."

However, when she got home again, she could not