ree,
quite within whispering distance:

"Pretty little noiseless thing," continued
the Nightingale, "what are
you? Where were you born? Have
you any father or mother? or are you
an orphan? My two brother birds
spoke of your brightness and lustre.
My eyes are tolerably good; but I
confess I can see none of these things
about you; you seem rather somehow
to appear sad, though I trust I am
wrong."

"I have reason to be sad," at last
replied the Dewdrop, in the quietest,
mildest, silveriest voice imaginable,
and trembling with an emotion real or
pretended. "You call me a Dewdrop,
but in truth I am not, I am a teardrop;
a teardrop which fell from the sky."

"A teardrop from the sky!" said
the Nightingale, in undisguised astonishment.
"I cannot comprehend you.
Pray tell me what you mean?"

"It is true, despite of your surprise,"
said the other. "The Sky always
weeps at the loss of the Sun; and no
wonder. I tell you again, believe it
or not as you please, I am one of the
tears it shed to-night. You need not,
however, grieve for me. I shall be all
right" (the tiny voice rising to a
falsetto) "when the Sun appears again.
Indeed, I venture to say, you will
hardly know me then. _That_ I am
sure of."

"Ay!" said the Nightingale, with
a sceptical, incredulous chirp.

"Yes! I always get bright, that I
do, when the Sun shows himself. Look
up to those stars, glittering in the sky.
Do you know how they twinkle so?
I am myself neither scholar nor
philosopher, and have no pretensions
either way. But a confidential friend
once told me, and I quite believe him,
that it is because they are either suns
themselves, or else get light from that
beautiful Sun you saw some time ago
tingeing the sky with red and gold.
_My Sun_," continued the dwarf thing of
mystery, raising its tones, with a sort
of conscious pride. (If it had been
aught else but a beaded drop, I would
have described it standing on tip-toe
as it said this.) It had, however, fairly
exhausted itself with a very unwonted
effort in the shape of a speech, and,
without saying another word, turned
on its side on the leafy bed, shut
both eyes, and went to sleep. The
Nightingale was of course too polite,
civil, and considerate to prolong. So
he simply said, "Good night to you,
little Teardrop, or Dewdrop, whatever
you prefer calling yourself. It is time,
and more than time, for me to be on
the wing. I have one or two domestic
anxieties which, in the firs