stork-papa turned his head towards her, listened to her
words, and drew near.

"You speak our language," he said; "what do you wish? Why do you
appear here--you, a strange woman?"

"It is I--it is Helga--dost thou not know me? Three minutes ago we
were speaking together yonder in the verandah!"

"That's a mistake," said the stork; "you must have dreamt all that!"

"No, no!" she persisted. And she reminded him of the Viking's castle,
and of the great ocean, and of the journey hither.

Then stork-papa winked with his eyes, and said:

"Why, that's an old story, which I heard from the time of my
great-grandfather. There certainly was here in Egypt a princess of
that kind from the Danish land, but she vanished on the evening of her
wedding-day, many hundred years ago, and never came back! You may read
about it yourself yonder on the monument in the garden; there you'll
find swans and storks sculptured, and at the top you are yourself in
white marble!"

And thus it was. Helga saw it, and understood it, and sank on her
knees.

The sun burst forth in glory; and as, in time of yore, the frog-shape
had vanished in its beams, and the beautiful form had stood displayed,
so now in the light a beauteous form, clearer, purer than air--a beam
of brightness--flew up into heaven!

The body crumbled to dust; and a faded lotos-flower lay on the spot
where Helga had stood.

* * * * *

"Well, that's a new ending to the story," said stork-papa. "I had
certainly not expected it. But I like it very well."

"But what will the young ones say to it?" said stork-mamma.

"Yes, certainly, that's the important point," replied he.

THE LAST DREAM OF THE OLD OAK TREE.

A CHRISTMAS TALE.

In the forest, high up on the steep shore, hard by the open sea coast,
stood a very old oak tree. It was exactly three hundred and sixty-five
years old, but that long time was not more for the tree than just as
many days would be to us men. We wake by day and sleep through the
night, and then we have our dreams: it is different with the tree,
which keeps awake through three seasons of the year, and does not get
its sleep till winter comes. Winter is its time for rest, its night
after the long day which is called spring, summer, and autumn.

On many a warm summer day the Ephemera, the fly that lives but for a
day, had danced around his crown--had lived, enjoyed, and felt happy;
and then rested for a moment in