ence to the
wonderful notes which fell on their ears--notes which no words of mine
could describe, for in themselves they were words, telling of suffering
and sorrow, of beautiful things and sad things, of strange fantastic
dreams, of sunshine and flowers and summer days, of icy winds from the
snow-clad hills, and days of dreariness and solitude. Each and all came
in their turn; but, at the last, all melted, all grew rather, into one
magnificent song of bliss and triumph, of joyful tenderness and
brilliant hope, too pure and perfect to be imagined but in a dream. And
as the last clear mellow notes fell on the children's ears, a sound of
wings seemed to come with them, and gazing ever more intently towards
the island they saw rising upwards the pure white snow-like
bird--upwards and upwards, ever higher, till at last, with the sound of
its own joyous song, it faded and melted into the opal radiance of the
calm sky above.

For long the children gazed after it--a spot of light seemed to linger
for some time in the sky just where it had disappeared--almost, to their
fancy, as if the white swan was resting there, again to return to earth.
But it was not so. Slowly, like the light of a dying star, the
brightness faded; there was no longer a trace of the swan's radiant
flight; again a soft low breeze, like a farewell sigh, fluttered across
the lake, and the children withdrew their eyes from the sky and looked
at each other.

"Jeanne!" said Hugh.

"Cheri!" said Jeanne.

"What was it? Was it not an angel, and not a swan?"

Jeanne shook her little head in perplexity.

"I don't know," she said. "It was wonderful. Did you hear all it told,
Cheri?"

"Yes," said Hugh. "But no one could ever tell it again, Jeanne. It is a
secret for us."

"And for the frogs," added Jeanne.

"And for the frogs," said Hugh.

"But," said Jeanne, "I thought the swan was going to die. _That_ was not
dying."

"Yes," said the queer croaking voice of the frog, suddenly reappearing
on the edge of the boat; "yes, my children," he repeated, with a strange
solemnity, "for such as the swan that _is_ dying. And now once more--for
you will never see me again, nor revisit this country--once again, my
children, I bid you farewell."

He waved his hands in adieu, and hopped away.

"Cheri," said Jeanne, after a short silence, "I feel rather sad, and a
very little sleepy. Do you think I might lie down a little--it is not
the least cold--and take a tiny