The little human being turned around.

"Who is crying?" he asked in his chiming voice.

"It's only me," stammered Maya. "Excuse me for interrupting
you."

"But why are you crying?"

"I don't know. Perhaps just because you are so beautiful. Who
are you? Oh, do tell me, if I am not asking too much. You are an
angel, aren't you? You must be."

"Oh, no," said the little creature, quite serious. "I am only a
sprite, a flower-sprite.-- But, dear little bee, what are you
doing out here in the meadow so late at night?"

The sprite flew over to a curving iris blade beside Maya and
regarded her long and kindly from his swaying perch in the
moonlight.

Maya told him all about herself, what she had done, what she
knew, and what she longed for. And while she spoke, his eyes
never left her, those large dark eyes glowing in the white fairy
face under the golden hair that ever and anon shone like silver
in the moonlight.

When she finished he stroked her head and looked at her so
warmly and lovingly that the little bee, beside herself with
joy, had to lower her gaze.

"We sprites," he explained, "live seven nights, but we must stay
in the flower in which we are born, else we die at dawn."

Maya opened her eyes wide in terror.

"Then hurry, hurry! Fly back into your flower!"

The, sprite shook his head sadly.

"Too late.-- But listen. I have more to tell you. Most of us
sprites are glad to leave our flowers never to return, because a
great happiness is connected with our leaving. We are endowed
with a remarkable power: before we die, we can fulfill the
dearest wish of the first creature we meet. It is when we make
up our minds seriously to leave the flower for the purpose of
making someone happy that our wings grow."

"How wonderful!" cried Maya. "I'd leave the flower too, then. It
must be lovely to fulfill another person's wish." That _she_ was
the first being whom the sprite on his flight from the flower
had met, did not occur to her. "And then--must you die?"

The sprite nodded, but not sadly this time.

"We live to see the dawn still," he said, "but when the dew
falls, we are drawn into the fine cobwebby veils that float
above the grass and the flowers of the meadows. Haven't you
often noticed that the veils shine white as though a light were
inside them? It's the sprites, their wings and their garments.
When the light rises we change into dew-drops. The plants drink
us and we become a part of their growing