arry their keys like precious things next their hearts."

Helma sighed and laughed at once. Then she leaned far out and tossed a
daffodil she was carrying down on the heads in the garden, shaking her
short, flower petal hair as she did it--she had cut it before starting
on the adventure--in a free, glad way.

No one looked up to see where the flower had dropped from. The people
down there were not interested in offerings from the heavens. So the
boat sailed on. Away and away over the canning factory they drifted,
where the little girl looked out from her window and up, and waved her
hands. "What are you waving at like that?" a man asked who was working
near. "Oh, just a white summer cloud," she said. For she knew very well
he did not want the truth. And I might as well tell you here that that
pale little girl was a prisoner who had not turned the lock herself, and
did not carry the key next her heart. Others had done that before she
was born. And she had seen the beckoning in spite of the lock and now
was only waiting a little while to answer it.

The children were glad to find the forest roof beneath them again. It
was noon when they sank down in the garden at their own white door
stone. Tree Mother left them there and flew away with the littlest
Forest Child, the one who liked to wander alone by himself.

Nora was in the house when they ran in. She had cleaned it with a
different cleaning from what it had had for Helma's first return. There
were no little foot prints on the floor now, and the window panes shone
like clear pools in sunlight. Three dishes of early strawberries and
three deep bowls of cream were standing on the table before the open
door. And then besides there was a big loaf of golden-brown bread.

"I thought you would be hungry," said Nora, pointing to the feast.

They were hungry indeed, for they had had nothing at all to eat since
yesterday's lunch of chocolate. They very soon finished the strawberries
and cream, and a jug of milk besides.

"You are a good neighbor, Nora," Helma said gratefully.

All Nora wanted in return for her labor and kindness was the story of
their adventure. She listened eagerly to every word. "I shall tell this
to my grandchildren," she said when the story was done, "and they will
think it just a fairy tale. They'll never believe it's fairy truth! Oh,
if they would only stop pretending to be so wise they themselves might
some time get the chance of a ride over the tree