harp had
spoken, and strangely, strangely she seemed to see in him the harper
whose music had told her of the sorrowful land beyond the sunset. For
this moment, she remembered, and then the thought departed.

At first the air seemed heavy and oppressive to the wanderer; but by
degrees she grew accustomed to it and even, in time, scarcely felt
it. Yet ever and again a dim remembrance of brighter, purer skies came
to her. She spoke of this more than once; but others only laughed and
said: "The child is dreaming!"

[Illustration]

Because she was no longer dressed in shining garments, they did not know
her for the princess she really was. Indeed, she was no way different
from those around her but that at heart she was still the daughter of
the king. They could not see her heart--this they could not know. And
seeing that they did not understand, she said no more of the thoughts
that came to her. They called it dreaming; but Eline thought that if
this were so, a dream were better than a waking life--unless--

Could these be thoughts that came to her of the world beyond the water,
the reflection of the real life? She knew not.

"We must teach this little dreamer what is life!" they said. "She will
not know what life is if we leave her to her dreams."

They made her work and made her play: work that never seemed to do
anyone any good, and play that seemed like work. She nearly forgot that
in what they called her dreams she had ever known of another life.

Sometimes she sang to herself, strange songs that they said sounded sad
and sorrowful, yet of a sweetness all their own.

"Where does she hear them?" people asked.

But Eline never told. For the truth was that they came to her in moments
when her thoughts were far away, dreaming.

"She sings like a bird in a cage that knows of a brighter world
outside," said one. But he was a poet, so they only smiled as if they
themselves would have made the same remark if it had not been so
fanciful.

And though men thought her sad and lonely, there was joy to her in the
hum of the bees and the song of the birds and the rustling of the
leaves. The butterflies and the flowers and the brooks were her friends.

"What a strange child," people said when they heard her talking to these
friends. They did not know of the stories her friends told her, stories
which reminded her of a wonderful garden of delight where men did not
ever stare and stare in gaping wonder because a little ch