said to myself,
'Elsie is right after all. That can only be some spirit child, some
woodland being.'

"A whisper in a little voice full of fear roused me and made me approach
the child. She looked up, ere she could see my face, and again repeated
the words in German (though not like what we speak here, but more the
language of the town, as I spoke it when I lived there as a boy),
'Father, father, I am glad you've come. I was feeling very frightened.
It is so dark here--so dark!' As I came nearer she gave a little cry of
disappointment, though not fear; and then I knew it was no woodland
sprite, but a living child who sat there alone at that hour in the
Forest. My heart went out to her, and kneeling down beside her I asked
her who she was, and how she came to be there so late at night. She
answered, in sweet childish accents, 'I am Frida Heinz, and fader and I
were walking through this big, big Forest, and by-and-by are going to
see England, where mother used to live long ago.' It was so pretty to
hear her talk, though I had difficulty in making out the meaning of her
words. 'But where then is your father?' I asked. I believe, wife, the
language I spoke was as difficult for her to understand as the words she
had spoken were to me, for she repeated them over as if wondering what
they meant. Then trying to recall the way I had spoken when a boy, which
I have never quite forgotten, I repeated my question. She understood,
and answered in her sweet babyish accents, 'Fader come back soon, he
told little Frida. He had lost the road, and he said I'se to wait here
till he came back, and laid his violin and his bag 'side me, and told me
to keep this little book, which he has taught me to read, 'cos he says
mother loved it so. Then he went away; and I've waited--oh so long, and
he's never come back, and I'se cold, so cold, and hungry, and I want my
own fader. O kind man, take Frida to him. And he's ill, so ill too! Last
night I heard the people in the place we slept in say he'd never live to
go through the Forest; but he would go, 'cos he wanted to take me 'cross
the sea.' Then the pretty little creature began to cry bitterly, and beg
me again to take her to father. I told her I would wait a bit with her,
and see if he came. For more than an hour I sat there beside her, trying
to warm and comfort her; for I tell you, Elsie, she seemed to creep into
my heart, and reminded me of our little one, who would have been about
her size had