long enough, when we
ran into the outskirts of The Hague--"S. Gravenhage," as I love to call
it to myself.

Until this moment, I'd been mentally patronizing Holland, admiring it,
and wondering at it, of course, but half-consciously saying that
quaintness, snugness, and historical interest were all we could expect
of the Low Country. Elegance and beauty of form we mustn't look for:
but I found myself surrounded by it in The Hague. There were streets of
tall, brown palaces, far finer than the royal dwelling which Robert
pointed out; the shops made me long to spring from the car and spend
every penny set apart for the tour; the Binnenhof--that sinister theater
of Dutch history--with its strangely grouped towers and palaces, and its
huge squares, made me feel an insignificant insect with no right to
opinions of any kind; and as I gazed up at the dark, medieval buildings,
vague visions of Cornelis and John de Witt in their torture, of van
Oldenbarneveld, and fair Adelaide de Poelgust stabbed and bleeding,
flitted fearfully through my brain. I wanted to get out and look for the
stone where Adelaide had fallen to die (how well I remembered that
story, told in twilight and firelight by my father!), and only the set
of Robert's shoulders deterred me. What was a romantic fragment of
history, compared to the certainty that the roast would be overdone?

But when we swept into the green-gold dusk of the forest, I forgot such
trivialities as buildings made by man.

Suddenly we were in a different world, an old, old world, with magic
that lurked in each dusky vista, breathed from the perfume of leaf and
fern, and whispered in the music of the trees, as if we had strayed upon
the road that leads to fairyland.

"Fancy seeing fairyland from the motor-car!" I said to myself. "I never
thought to go in such a fashion, though I've been sure that one day or
another I would find the way there through such a forest as this."

I felt that, if I walked here alone, I might see something more
mysterious than alder-trees, than giant beeches, and ancient oaks; than
glints of flower-strewn waters shining out of shadow in green darkness
deep and cool; than rustic bridges twined with creepers, or kiosks
glimmering at the end of long, straight alleys. I should have seen
processions of dim figures; chanting Druids and their victims; wild,
fierce warriors, and blue-eyed women, their white arms and the gold of
their long hair shining through the mist