They were standing, as I said, not many yards from the end of the wall, and thither the sound seemed to lead them. When they got quite to the corner the tapping had stopped. But the children were not discouraged.

“That’s what fairies do,” said Alix, as if all her life she had lived on intimate terms with the beings she spoke of. “They show you a bit, and then they leave you to find out a bit for yourself. We must poke about now and see what we can find.”

Rafe had already set to work in this way: he was feeling and prodding the big, solid-looking stones which finished off the corner.

“Alix,” he exclaimed, “one of these stones shakes a little; let’s push at it together.”

Yes, there was no doubt that it yielded a little, especially at one side. The children pushed with all their might and main, but for some time an uncertain sort of wobbling was the only result. Rafe stood back a little to recover his breath, and to look at the stone more critically.

“There may be some sort of spring or hinge about it,” he said at last. “Give me the parasol again, Alix.”

He then pressed the point of it firmly along the side of the stone, down the seam of mortar which appeared to join it to its neighbour in the wall. He need not have pressed so hard, for when he got to the middle of the line the stone suddenly yielded, turning inwards so quickly and sharply that Rafe almost fell forward on the parasol, and a square dark hole was open before them.

Alix darted forward and peeped in.

“Rafe,” she cried, “there’s a sort of handle inside; shall I try to turn it?”

She did so without waiting for his answer. It moved quite easily, and then they found that the two or three stones completing the row to the ground, below the one that had already opened, were really only thin slabs joined together and forming a little door. It was like the doors you sometimes see in a library, which on the outside have the appearance of a row of books.

The opening was now clear before them, and they did not hesitate to pass through. They had to stoop a little, but once within, it was easy to stand upright, and even side by side. Alix caught hold of Rafe’s hand.

“Let’s keep fast hold of each other,” she whispered.

For a few steps they advanced in almost total darkness, for the door behind them had noiselessly closed. But this was in the nature of things, and quite according to Alix’s programme.

“I only hope,” she went on, “that we haven’t somehow or other got inside the cave where the pied piper took the children. It might have an opening into England somehow, even though I think Hamelin was in Germany; but, of course, there’s nothing to be frightened at, is there, Rafe?” though her own heart was beating fast.

Rafe’s only answer was a sort of grunt, which expressed doubt, though we will not say fear. Perhaps it was the safest answer he could make under the very peculiar circumstances. But no doubt it was a great relief to both when, before they had time really to ask themselves whether they were frightened or not, a faint light showed itself in front of them, growing stronger and brighter as they stepped on, till at last they could clearly make out in what sort of a place they were.

It was a short, fairly wide passage, seemingly hollowed out of the ground, and built up in the same way as the wall outside into the soil – in fact it was like a small tunnel. The light was of a reddish hue, and soon they saw the reason of this. It came from an inner room, the door of which was half open, where a fire was brightly burning, and by the hearth sat a small figure.

The children looked at each other, then they bent forward to see more. Noiseless though they were, the little person seemed to know they were coming. She lifted her head, and though her face was partly hidden by the hood of the scarlet cloak which covered her almost entirely, they saw that it was that of a very old woman.

“Welcome, my dears,” she said at once. “I have been looking for you this long time.”

Her voice, though strange – in what way it was strange the children could not have told, for it seemed to come from far away, and yet it seemed to them that they had often heard it before – encouraged them to step forward.

“Good-morning,” Alix began, but then she hesitated. Was it morning, or evening, or night, or what? It was difficult to believe that only a few minutes ago they had been standing outside in the warm sunshine, with the soft spring breeze wafting among the fresh green leaves, and the birds singing overhead. That all seemed a dream. “I beg your pardon,” the little girl began again; “I don’t quite know what I should say, but thank you for speaking so kindly. How did you know we were coming?”

“I heard you,” replied the old woman. “I heard your little footsteps up to the gateway yesterday, and I knew you’d come again to-day.”

By this time Rafe had found his tongue too.

“Did you send the wren?” he said.

“Never mind about that just now,” she answered. “I’ve many a messenger; and what’s better still, I’ve quick eyes, and even quicker ears, for all that I’m so very old. I know what you want of me, and if you’re good children you shall not be disappointed. I’ve been getting ready for you in more ways than one.”

“Do you mean you’ve got stories to tell us?” exclaimed the children eagerly.

“Of course,” she replied, with a smile.

“I wouldn’t be much good if I hadn’t stories for you.”

All this time, I must tell you, the old woman had been busily knitting. Her needles made a little silvery click, but there was nothing fidgeting about this sound; now and then her words seemed to go in a sort of time with it. What she was knitting they could not see.

Alix gave a deep sigh of satisfaction.

“How beautiful!” she said; “and may we come every day, and may we stay as long as we like, and will you sometimes invite us to tea, perhaps? and – ”

“Alix!” said Rafe, in a tone of reproval.

“Nay, nay,” said their hostess. “Let her chatter. All in good time, my love,” she added to Alix, and the click of the needles seemed to repeat the words, “All in good time,” like a little song.

Rafe’s eyes, which were sometimes more observant than Alix’s, as his tongue did not use up so much of his attention as hers, had meanwhile been wandering round the room. It can, I think, be best described as a very cosy kitchen, but, unlike many kitchens, it was fresh and not the least too hot. There was a strange, pleasant fragrance in the air that made one think of pine woods. Afterwards the children found out that this came from the fire, for it was entirely of fir-cones, of which a large heap stood neatly stacked in one corner.

Along chain hung down the chimney, with a hook at the end, to which a bright red copper pan was fastened; a little kettle of the same metal stood on the hearthstone, which was snowy white. The walls of the room were of rough stone, redder in colour than the wall outside, or else the firelight made them seem so. Behind where the old woman sat hung a grass-green curtain, closely drawn; there was no lamp or candle, but the firelight was quite enough. A wooden dresser ran along one side, and on its shelves were arranged cups and plates and jugs of the queerest shapes and colours you could imagine. I must tell you more about these later on. There was a settle with a very curious patchwork cushion, but besides this and the rocking-chair on which sat the old woman – I forgot to say that she was sitting on a rocking-chair – the only seats were two little three-legged stools. The middle of the floor was covered by matting of a kind the children had never seen; it was shaded brown, and made you think of a path strewn over with fallen leaves in autumn.

The old woman’s kindly tone encouraged Rafe to speak in his turn.

“May I ask you one or two things,” he said, “before you begin telling us the stories?”

“As many as you like, my boy,” she replied cheerfully. “I don’t say I’ll answer them all – that’s rather a different matter – but you can ask all the same.”

“It’s so puzzling,” said Rafe, hesitating a little. “I don’t think it puzzles Alix so much as me; she knows more about fairy things, I think. I do so want to know if you’ve lived here a very long time. Have you always lived here – even when the old house was standing and there were people in it?”

“Never mind about always,” replied the old woman. “A very, very long time? Yes, longer than you could understand, even if I explained it! Long before the old house was pulled down? Yes, indeed, long before the old house was ever thought of! I’m the caretaker here nowadays, you see.”

“The caretaker!” Rafe repeated; “but there’s no house to take care of.”

“There’s a great deal to take care of nevertheless,” she replied. “Think of all the creatures up in the garden, the birds and the butterflies, not to speak of the flowers and the blossom. Ah, yes! we caretakers have a busy time of it, I can tell you, little as you might think it. And the stories – why, if I had nothing else to do, the looking after them would keep me busy. They take a deal of tidying. You’d scarcely believe the state they come home in sometimes when they’ve been out for a ramble – all torn and jagged and draggle-tailed, or else, what’s worse, dressed up in such vulgar new clothes that their own mother, and I’m as good as their mother, would scarcely know them again. No, no,” and she shook her head, “I’ve no patience with such ways.”

Alix looked delighted. She quite understood the old woman.

“How nicely you say it,” she exclaimed. “It’s like something papa told us the other day about legends; don’t you remember, Rafe?”

Rafe’s slower wits were still rather perplexed, but he took things comfortably. Somehow he no longer remembered any more questions to ask. The old woman’s bright eyes as she looked at him gave him a pleasant, contented feeling.

“Have you got a story quite ready for us?” asked Alix.

“One, two, three, four,” said the old woman, counting her stitches. “I’m setting it on, my dear; it’ll be ready directly. But what have you got in your basket? It’s your dinner, isn’t it? You must be getting hungry. Wouldn’t you like to eat something while the story’s getting ready?”

“Are you going to knit the story?” said Alix, looking very surprised.

“Oh dear no!” said the old woman, smiling. “It’s only a way I have. The knitting keeps it straight, otherwise it might fly off once I’ve let it out. Now open your basket and let’s see what you’ve got for your dinner. There, set it on the table, and you may reach down plates and jugs for yourselves.”

“It’s nothing much,” said Alix, “just some sandwiches and two hard-boiled eggs and some slices of cake.”

“Very good things in their way,” said the old woman, as Alix unpacked the little parcels and laid them on the plates which Rafe handed her from the dresser. “And if you look into my larder you’ll find some fruit, maybe, which won’t go badly for dessert. What should you say to strawberries and cream?”

She nodded towards one corner of the kitchen where there was a little door which the children had not before noticed, so very neatly was it fitted into the wall.

The opening of it was another surprise; the “larder” was quite different from the room inside. It was a little arbour, so covered over with greenery that you could not see through the leaves to the outside, though the sunshine managed to creep in here and there, and the twittering of the birds was clearly heard.

On a stone slab stood a curiously-shaped basket filled with – oh! such lovely strawberries! and beside it a bowl of tempting yellow cream; these were the only eatables to be seen in the larder.

“Strawberries!” exclaimed Rafe; “just fancy, Alix, and it’s only April.”

“But we’re in Fairyland, you stupid boy,” said Alix; “or at least somewhere very near it.”

“Quick, children,” came the old woman’s voice from the kitchen. “You bring the strawberries, Alix, and Rafe the cream. There’ll be no time for stories if you dawdle!”

This made them hurry back, and soon they were seated at the table, with all the nice things neatly before them. They were not greedy children fortunately, for, as everybody knows, fairy-folk hold few things in greater horror than greediness; and they were orderly children too. They packed up their basket neatly again when they had finished, and Alix asked if they should wash up the plates that had been lent to them, which seemed to please their old friend, for she smiled as she replied that it wasn’t necessary.

“My china is of a different kind from any you’ve ever seen,” she said. “Whiff, plates,” she added; and then, to the children’s amusement, there was a slight rattle, and all the crockery was up in its place again, shining as clean and bright as before it had been used.

There was now no doubt at all that they were really in Fairyland.

Chapter Four.
The Story of the Three Wishes

“And now for a story,” said Alix joyfully. “May we sit close beside you, Mrs – oh dear! Mayn’t we call you something?”

“Anything you like,” replied the old woman, smiling.

“I know,” cried Alix; “Mrs Caretaker – will that do? It’s rather a nice name when you come to think of it.”

“Yes,” agreed their old friend; “and it should be everybody’s name, more or less, if everybody did their duty. There’s no one without something to take care of.”

“No,” said Rafe thoughtfully; “I suppose not.”

“Draw the two little stools close beside me – one at the right, one at the left; and if you like, you may lean your heads on my knee, you’ll hear none the worse.”

“Oh, that’s beautiful,” said Alix; “it’s like the children and the white lady. Do you know about the white lady?” she went on, starting up suddenly.

Mrs Caretaker nodded. “Oh yes,” she said; “she’s a relation of mine. But we mustn’t chatter any more if you’re to have a story.”

And the children sat quite silent. Click, click, went the knitting-needles.

The Story of the Three Wishes.

That was the name of the first of Mrs Caretaker’s stories.

Once upon a time there lived two sisters in a cottage on the edge of a forest. It was rather a lonely place in some ways, though there was an old town not more than a mile off, where there were plenty of friendly people. But it was lonely in this way, that but seldom any of the townsfolk passed near the cottage, or cared to come to see the sisters, even though they were good and pretty girls, much esteemed by all who knew them.

For the forest had a bad name. Nobody seemed to know exactly why, or what the bad name meant, but there it was. Even in the bright long summer days the children of the town would walk twice as far on the other side to gather posies of the pretty wood-flowers in a little copse, not to be compared with the forest for beauty, rather than venture within its shade. And the young men and maidens of a summer evening, though occasionally they might come to its outskirts in their strolls, were never tempted to do more than stand for a moment or two glancing along its leafy glades. Only the sisters, Arminel and Chloe, had sometimes entered the forest, though but for a little way, and not without some fear and trembling.

But they had no misgiving as to living in its near neighbourhood. Custom does a great deal, and here in the cottage by the forest-side they had spent all their lives. And the grandmother, who had taken care of them since they had been left orphans in their babyhood, told them there was no need for fear so long as they loved each other and did their duty. All the same, she never denied that the great forest was an uncanny place.

This was the story of it, so far as any one knew. Long, long ago, when many things in the world were different from what they are now, a race of giants, powerful and strong, were the owners of the forest, and so long as they were just and kindly to their weaker neighbours, all went well. But after a while they grew proud and tyrannical, and did some very cruel things. Then their power was taken from them, and they became, as a punishment, as weak and puny as they had been the opposite. Now and then, so it was said about the countryside, one or two of them had been seen, miserable-looking little dwarfs. And the seeing of them was the great thing to be dreaded, for it was supposed to be a certain sign of bad luck.

But the grandmother had heard more than this, though where, or when, or how, she could not remember. The spell over the forest dwarfs was not to be for ever; something some day was to break it, though what she did not know.

“And who can tell,” she would say now and then, “how better things may come about for the poor creatures? There’s maybe a reason for your being here, children. Keep love and pity in your hearts, and never let any fear prevent you doing a kind action if it comes in your way.”

But till now, though they had gone on living in the old cottage since their grandmother’s death in the same way, never forgetting what she had said, Arminel and Chloe had never caught sight of their strange neighbours. True, once or twice they had seen a small figure scuttering away when they had ventured rather farther than usual along the forest paths, but then it might have been only some wild wood creature, of whom, no doubt, there were many who had their dwellings in the lonely gloom. Sometimes a strange curiosity really to see one of the dwarfs for themselves would come over them; they often talked about it in the long winter evenings when they had nothing to amuse them.

But it was only to each other that they talked in this way. To their friends in the town, for they had friends there whom they saw once a week on the market-day, they never chattered about the forest or the dwarfs; and when they were asked why they went on living in this strange and lonely place, they smiled and said it was their home, and they were happier there than anywhere else.

And so they were. They were very busy to begin with, for their butter and eggs and poultry were more prized than any to be had far or near. Arminel was the dairy-woman, and Chloe the hen-wife, and at the end of each week they would count up their earnings, eager to see which had made the more by their labours. Fortunately for their happy feelings to each other, up till now their gains had been pretty nearly equal, for there is no saying where jealousy will not creep in, even between the dearest of friends.

But quite lately, for the first time, things had not been going so well. It was late in the autumn, and there had been unusually heavy rains, and when they ceased the winter seemed to begin all at once, and before its time, and the animals suffered for it. The cow’s milk fell off before Arminel had looked for its doing so, and some great plans which she had been making for the future seemed likely to be disappointed. She had hoped to save enough through the winter to buy another cow in the spring, so that with the two she would have had a supply of butter for her customers in the town all the year round. And Chloe’s hens were not doing well either. One or two of them had even died, and she couldn’t get her autumn chickens to fatten. Worst of all, the eggs grew fewer day by day.

These misfortunes distressed the sisters very much. Sadder still, they grew irritable and short-tempered, each reproaching the other, and making out that she herself had managed better.

“It is all your want of foresight,” said Arminel to Chloe one market-day when the egg-basket looked but poorly filled.

“Everybody knows that hens stop laying with the first cold. You should have potted some eggs a few weeks ago when they were so plentiful.”

“My customers don’t care for potted eggs,” said Chloe. “Till now I have always had a pretty fair supply of fresh ones, except for a week or two about Christmas time. How should I have known that this year would be different from other years? If you are so wonderfully wise, why did you not bring Strawberry indoors a month sooner than usual? It is evident that she has caught cold. You need not sneer at my eggs when you count your pats of butter. Why, there are not above half what you had two months ago.”

“When you manage your own affairs properly, you may find fault with mine,” said Arminel snappishly.

And they felt so unamiable towards each other that all the way to market and back they walked on separate sides of the road without speaking a word.

Such a state of things had never been known before.

It was late when they got home that afternoon, and being a dull and cloudy day it was almost dark. The poor girls felt tired and unhappy, for each was sad with the double sadness of having to bear her troubles alone. And besides this, there is nothing more tiring than ill-temper.

Arminel sat down weariedly on a chair. The fire was out; the cottage felt very chilly; the one little candle which Chloe had lighted gave but a feeble ray. Arminel sighed deeply. Chloe, whose heart was very soft, felt sorry for her, and setting down her basket began to see to the fire.

“Leave it alone,” said her sister. “We may as well go to bed without any supper. I’m too tired to eat; and it’s just as well to get accustomed to scanty fare. It is what is before us, I suppose.”

“You need not be quite so downhearted,” said Chloe, persevering in her efforts. “Things may mend again. I sold my eggs for more than ever before. It seems that everybody’s hens are doing badly. I’ll have the fire burning in a minute, and some nice hot coffee ready, and then you’ll feel better.”

But Arminel was not to be so easily consoled.

“If you’ve done well with your eggs it’s more than I did with my butter,” she said. “Dame Margery, the housekeeper from the castle, says she’ll take no more from me if I can’t promise as much as last year. She doesn’t like to go changing about for her butter, she says; and mine was enough for the ladies.”

“I’m sure you’ve enough for two ladies still,” said Chloe.

“Yes; but if I don’t keep a little for my other customers, they won’t come back to me when I have plenty again,” answered her sister, who seemed determined to look on the black side of things.

Then, unluckily, in spite of Chloe’s care, the cold and the damp of the chimney made the fire smoke; great clouds puffed out, almost filling the kitchen.

“I wish you had let me go to bed,” said Arminel hastily; and Chloe’s patience being exhausted, she retorted by calling her sister unkind and ungrateful.

The smoke was very disagreeable, no doubt. Arminel opened the window wide to let it clear off. The wind was blowing from the forest which lay on this side of the house. All looked dark and gloomy, and Arminel gave a little shiver as she glanced out. Suddenly she started.

“Chloe,” she said, “did you hear that?”

“What?” said Chloe.

“A cry – yes, there it is again, as if some one was in great trouble.”

Chloe heard it too, but she was feeling rather sulky and contradictory.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “Only a hare or some wild creature; they often scream,” and she turned back to the table where she was preparing coffee.

But though the room was now pretty clear of smoke and the fire was behaving better, Arminel did not close the window. She still stood by it listening. And again there came the strange shrill yet feeble cry, telling unmistakably of anguish, or whether of beast or man no one could have told. And this time Chloe stood still with the kettle in her hand, more startled than she had been before.

“Sister,” said Arminel decidedly, “that is not the squeal of a hare; it is something worse. Perhaps some child from the town may have strayed into the forest and got benighted. It is possible at least. And the forest is not like other places. Who knows what might happen to one astray there?”

“What could we do in such a case?” said Chloe. “We’re not all-powerful.” She spoke more out of a little remaining temper than from cowardice or indifference, for like her sister she was both brave and kind.

“Remember what our grandmother said,” said Arminel, and she repeated the grandmother’s words: ”‘Never hang back from doing a kind action; no harm can come to you while you love each other and do your duty.’ I am going alone to the forest if you will not come,” she went on, and she turned towards the door as she spoke.

“Of course I will come with you,” said Chloe, reaching down her mantle and hood which she had hung up on a nail. “Close the window, Arminel,” she said. “I’ll leave the coffee on the hob. The fire is burning nicely now, and we shall find it bright and warm when we come back.”

As they stepped outside, closing the door behind them, the cry broke out again. Tired though they were with their long day at market, the sisters set off running. Two or three fields lay between them and the edge of the wood, and part of the way the ground was very rough, but they were nimble and sure-footed. And ever as they ran came the cries, feebler yet more distinct, and before long they could distinguish the words, “Help! comrades, help!”

“It is not a hare, you see,” said Arminel.

“No, indeed,” answered Chloe, and both felt a thrill of fear, though they only ran the faster.

The cries, though now they grew rarer, becoming indeed mingled with groans, still served to guide them. Soon they were in the midst of the trees, making their way more by a sort of instinct, for it was almost dark. Suddenly a ray of moonlight glimmered through the firs, and a few paces in front of them they saw lying on the ground a small dark object writhing and groaning.

Just here the trees were not so thick. It was like a little clearing. The girls stepped onwards cautiously, catching hold of each other.

“It is – ” whispered Arminel – “Oh, Chloe, it is one of the dwarfs.”

“Courage,” murmured Chloe in return, though her own heart was beating very fast. “He seems in no state to hurt us now, if only it be not a trick.”

The groans had ceased, and when they got close to the strange figure on the ground it seemed quite motionless. The moonlight had grown stronger. They stooped down and examined the dwarf. His eyes were closed; his face was wrinkled and brown; he was brown all over. He wore a furry coat, much the same colour as his own skin.

Arminel lifted one of his queer clawlike hands; it fell down again by his side.

“I believe he is dead,” she said. “I didn’t know the dwarfs ever could die. What shall we do, Chloe? We cannot leave him here, in case he should be still living.”

“We must carry him home, I’m afraid,” said Chloe. “Yes, I’m afraid we must, for see, Arminel, he’s opening his eyes,” as two bright black beads suddenly glanced up at them.

“Nimbo, Hugo,” said a weak, hoarse little voice. “Are you there? No,” and the dwarf opened his eyes more widely, and tried to sit up. “No,” he went on, “it is not my comrades! Who are you?” and he shuddered as if with fear.