t, but it seemed slowly to take the very shape
of the lady herself, as if it were her own shadow that had found her; and
so it began to creep into her body. And as it melted into her flesh, she
grew cold and ever colder as if her blood were turning to ice. Pretty soon
it would have reached her heart and then--I shudder to think what would
have become of her. But when the first chill touched her heart, she
uttered a loud cry of fear: "Dear knight, dear knight," she called out,
"where are you? Save me! save me!"

Then another wonderful thing happened in the darkness, for at such times
our spoken words may take on a life of their own just as the trees and
shadows do. And so these words of the lady, instead of scattering in the
air, were changed into a marvellous little fairy elf that went stealing
away through the forest. And as the elf ran swiftly under the trees and
over the long grass, so lightly indeed that the flowers and weeds only
bowed under his feet as when a gentle breeze passes over them,--as the elf
sped on, I say, everywhere the earth sent up a lisping whisper, "Save me,
dear knight! save me!"

Now the knight was far away, resting from his battle with the old witch.
He had wounded her in many places, and might perhaps have killed her, had
not the sly wicked creature suddenly slipt away from him into some hiding
place of hers in the desert. And so, as he could not reach her, he was
resting, very tired and very sad. Then suddenly, as he sat with his head
hanging down, the little elf came tripping over the grass and plucked him
by the arm, and the faint whisper stole into his ear, "Save me, dear
knight! save me!"

Do you suppose he was long in rising and following the clever little elf
back to their mistress? Ah, Jack, there was a happy hour and a happy year
and a blissful life for the lady and her knight then, was there not?

And now, Jack, I will not bother you with any more stories after this.
Write to me and tell me all you are doing. Be good, little Jack, and
listen to the wise words of the trees and other growing things; and, above
all, love that sweet lady, Miss Jessica.

Affectionately,

PHILIP TOWERS.

LVII

FROM PHILIP'S DIARY

There are two paths of consolation and we have strayed from both. There is
the way of the _Imitation_ trod by those who have perceived the illusion
of