yes! I was too!"
"Are you sorry for that? Do you not like human beings?"
"No. Who could like them?"
"Who? Well, Johannes; but you are an odd child! Do you like animals better?"
"Oh, much better—and flowers."
"Really, I do, too—sometimes. But that is not right. Father says we must love our friends."
"Why is that not right? I like whom I choose whether it is right or not."
"Fie, Johannes! Have you no parents, then, nor any one who cares for you? Are you not fond of them?"
"Yes," said Johannes, remembering. "I love my father, but not because it is right, nor because he is a human being."
"Why, then?"
"I do not know—because he is not like other human beings—because he, too, is fond of birds and flowers."
"And so am I, Johannes. Look!" And Robinetta called the robin to her hand, and petted it.
"I know it," said Johannes. "And I love you very much, too.
"Already? That is very soon," laughed the girl. "Whom do you love best of all?"
"I love—" Johannes hesitated. Should he speak Windekind's name? The fear that he might let slip that name to human ears was never out of his thoughts. And yet, was not this fair-haired being in blue, Windekind himself? Who else could give him that feeling of rest and happiness?
"You!" said he, all at once, looking frankly into the deep blue eyes. Courageously, he ventured a full surrender. He was anxious, though, and eagerly awaited the reception of his precious gift.
Again Robinetta laughed heartily, but she pressed his hand, and her look was no colder, her voice no less cordial.
"Well, Johannes," said she, "what have I done to earn this so suddenly?"
Johannes made no reply, but stood looking at her with growing confidence.
Robinetta stood up, and laid her arm about Johannes' shoulders. She was taller than he.
Thus they strolled through the woods, and picked great clusters of cowslips, until they could have hidden under the mountain of sun-filled yellow flowers. The little redbreast went with them—flying from branch to branch, and peering at them with its shining little black eyes.
They did not speak much, but now and then looked askance at each other. They were both perplexed by this adventure, and uncertain what they ought to think of each other.
Much to her regret, Robinetta had soon to turn back.
"I must go now, Johannes, but will you not take another walk with me? I think you are a nice little boy," said she in taking her leave.
"Tweet! Tweet!" said the robin as he flew after her.
When she had gone, and her image alone remained to him, he doubted no more who she was. She was the very same to whom he had given his friendship. The name Windekind rang fainter, and became confused with Robinetta.
Everything about him was again the same as it had formerly been. The flowers nodded cheerfully, and their perfume chased away the melancholy longing for home which, until now, he had felt and encouraged. Amid the tender greenery, in the soft, mild, vernal air, he felt all at once at home, like a bird that had found its nest. He stretched out his arms and took in a full, deep breath—he was so happy! On his way home, wherever he looked he always saw gliding before him the figure in light blue with the golden hair. It was as though he had been looking at the sun, until its image was stamped upon everything he saw.
From this day on Johannes went to the pond every clear morning. He went early—as soon as he was wakened by the squabbling of the sparrows in the ivy about his window, and by the tedious chirping and chattering of the starlings, as they fluttered in the water-leader in the early sunshine. Then he hurried through the dewy grass, close to the house, and watched from behind the lilac-bush until he heard the glass door open, and saw the bright figure coming toward him.
Then they wandered through the woods, and over the hills which lay beyond. They talked about everything in sight; the trees, the plants, and the dunes. Johannes had a strange, giddy sensation as he walked beside her. Sometimes he felt light enough again to fly through the air. But he never could. He told the story of the flowers and of the animals, as Windekind had given it to him. But he forgot how he had learned it, and Windekind existed no more for him—only Robinetta. He was happy when she laughed with him, and he saw the friendship in her eyes; and he spoke to her as he had formerly done to his little dog—saying whatever came into his head, without hesitation or shyness. When he did not see her he spent the hours in thinking of her; and each thing he did was with the question whether Robinetta would find it good or beautiful.
And she, herself, appeared always so pleased to see him. She would smile and hasten her steps. She had told him that she would rather walk with him than with any one else.
"But, Johannes," she once asked, "how do you know all these things? How do you know what the May-bugs think, what the thrushes sing, and how it looks in a rabbit-hole, or on the bottom of the water?"
"They have told me," answered Johannes, "and I have myself been in a rabbit-hole and on the bottom of the water."
Robinetta knitted her delicate eyebrows and looked at him half mockingly. But his face was full of truth.
They were sitting under lilac trees, from which hung thick, purple clusters. Before them lay the pond with its reeds and duck-weed. They saw the black beetles gliding in circles over the surface, and little red spiders busily darting up and down. It swarmed with life and movement. Johannes, absorbed in remembrances, gazed into the depths, and said:
"I went down there once. I slipped down a reed to the very bottom. It is all covered with fallen leaves which make it so soft and smooth. It is always twilight there—a green twilight—for the light falls through the green duck-weed. And over my head I saw the long, white rootlets hanging down.
"The newts, which are very inquisitive, came swimming about me. It gives a strange feeling to have such great creatures swimming above one; and I could not see far in front, for it was dark there—yet green, too. And in that darkness the living things appeared like black shadows. There were paddle-footed water-beetles, and flat mussels, and sometimes, too, a little fish. I went a long way—hours away, I believe—and in the middle was a great forest of water-plants, where snails were creeping, and water-spiders were weaving their glistening nests. Minnows darted in and out, and sometimes they stayed with open mouths and quivering fins to look at me, they were so amazed. There I made the acquaintance of an eel whose tail I had the misfortune to step on. He told me about his travels. He had been as far as the sea, he said. Because of this, he had been made King of the Pond—for no one else had been so far. He always lay in the mud, sleeping, except when others brought him something to eat. He was a frightful eater. That was because he was a king. They prefer a fat king—one that is portly and dignified. Oh, it was splendid in that pond!"
"Then why can you not go there again—now?"
"Now?" asked Johannes, looking at her with great, pondering eyes. "Now? I can never go again. I should be drowned. But there is no need of it.
